


It must be Magic

by tigerlily_sunshine



Series: Fractured [1]
Category: 5 Seconds of Summer (Band)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Hogwarts, Bullied Michael, Lonely Michael, M/M, Popular Calum
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-09-10
Updated: 2016-06-30
Packaged: 2018-04-20 01:01:17
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 30
Words: 120,514
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4767683
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/tigerlily_sunshine/pseuds/tigerlily_sunshine
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>It’s only Calum’s words playing on repeat in his mind, "Michael’s my friend," that keeps Michael firmly planted in place. He doesn’t quite believe them. He hasn’t really spoken to Calum since the first few months of their first year at Hogwarts when they finally realized what everybody’d been telling them all along: Slytherins can’t be friends with other houses.</p><p>(In which Michael is a friendless Slytherin who doesn't really belong anywhere, but Calum is bound and determined to prove him otherwise.)</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> This takes place after the Second Wizarding War in an undisclosed time period.

Michael stares at the letter held between his hands, the parchment crinkling up where his fingers dig in a little too much. He can’t look away. He can’t stop himself from lingering on the words _don’t come home_ , and he can’t stop the tears from welling up in his eyes. It’s stupid, really, to get all emotional over this stupid letter. He doesn’t cry. He prides himself on the fact that he hasn’t cried since his first night in the Slytherin dorm when he was totally and completely, one hundred percent alone—when he’d fallen asleep to the excited chatter of his dorm mates, who were all excited to spend the next seven years together, and none of them had made an attempt to talk to the quiet, weird blond-headed boy hiding out behind his curtains. Everybody knew the Clifford name. Nobody wanted to cross it, but nobody wanted to be associated with it, either.

Now, four years later, he swears he’s over the feeling of not being wanted. He’s kept his head down at least, and he’s managed to talk to a few of his classmates who don’t seem as terrified at his surname. So all things are good, considering. But this letter, it’s not good. One stupid event from the summer before has basically bitten him in the ass, almost literally. Now, his family doesn’t even want to see him for the holidays. That’s just great.

He’s totally fine with it anyway.

“What you got there, Clifford? A _love_ letter?” demands Finn meanly. He’s a tall and gangly fellow fifth-year Slytherin, and he has hated Michael since the day they met on opposite side of the Slytherin table right after the sorting. It’s a feeling Michael returns.

Finn tries to snatch away the letter from Michael’s hand, but Michael’s quicker, tugging it back to himself. They’re certainly too old for this childish game. They’re both too magical to forget they can use their wands, but they both do momentarily. It’s Finn’s right-hand man, Archer, who draws his wand first. A bright flash of light blinds Michael’s vision, and he crashes back against the wall behind him. The letter floats in midair before Finn and Archer, and Michael stares in horror, stunned, on the ground before them.

“ _Ooh, Mummy doesn’t want her baby boy coming home for the holidays_ ,” mocks Archer, a sneer marring his aristocratic-set face. He’s just as tall as Finn is, but he’s more burly. He’s a beater for the Slytherin quidditch team, and it shows in his stature. “Nobody wants you, Clifford. Why don’t you—”

Another bright jet of light fills the corridor, and this time it’s Archer who’s struck by the spell. It knocks him clear off his feet. He hits the stone floor hard, the breath knocked out of him. There’s a figure moving out of the corner of Michael’s eyes, but the stunning spell still has hold over his body, and he can’t move his head enough to see who this mysterious wand-wielder is.

“Hey! Leave him alone, you wankers!”

If Michael weren’t already stunned, he would’ve frozen at the voice. His chest tightens in knots. He wishes he were anywhere but here in this moment in time. He waits as the wizard steps into his line of sight, even though he’s already undoubtedly identified the voice as belonging to none other than Calum Hood, the boy who was once his only friend until their sorting four years ago had efficiently severed their friendship. No matter how far it seemed things had come since the conclusion of the Second Wizarding War, house lines still existed. There was no future for a friendship between a Hufflepuff and a Slytherin.

Calum waves his wand again, and Michael can move again. Michael considers, for a brief second, of just performing a memory charm on everybody in the corridor, because this is the most humiliating experience of his fifth year, and he’d rather nobody remember him as the pathetic Slytherin who can’t be stereotypically evil enough to stick up for himself. He doesn’t, though. He’s too nice to be mean, even when faced with this utter humiliation in front of the one person in the entire school that Michael wishes hadn’t came to his aid.

“What you want with something like him, Hood? Clifford’s a disgrace to his family name—a disgrace to the Slytherin house,” snaps Finn.

He wraps his hand around his wand and flicks it in Michael’s direction, but he doesn’t fire off any spell. Calum’s quicker than Finn is. He turns his own wand on Finn, disarming him. The weapon soars through the air, and Calum catches it with the ease like that of a quidditch seeker.

“I don’t give a damn about the honor of the Slytherin house.”

“Typical Hufflepuff, only loyal to your own house,” sneers Finn. Behind him, Archer is starting to get to his feet. Finn glances over his shoulder then back to Calum. “You’ve fulfilled your quota of inter-house good deeds for the year, so feel good about yourself or whatever, and get lost.”

It’s the wrong thing to say to Calum, who has always been fiercely protective of the image of Hufflepuff. Michael’s spent the past five years watching from a distance as Calum has fought tooth and nail—wand and fist—to tear down the idea that Hufflepuff is nothing more than a house full of students who aren’t good enough to belong anywhere else. He’s beloved by everybody in his house and by most of the students outside of Slytherin and by ever single professor but especially Professor Sprout, who has had a soft spot for him since the moment the Sorting Hat touched his head and screamed out _Hufflepuff!_ for the entire hall to hear. He’s taken the Hufflepuff quidditch team to the Cup two out of the past three years as chaser under the excellent captainship of Niall Horan, who, as a sixth year now, was one of the youngest captains to ever grace the halls of Hogwarts. He’s done everything he can to make sure that everybody recognizes the validity of Hufflepuff house amongst the other four, and it’s made him somewhat of a minor celebrity around the grounds.

Calum flicks his wand and pins Finn to the wall behind him. He holds him there with his magic as he approaches the Slytherin, and he’s not concerned at all that Archer is reaching for his own wand to defend Finn. He’s glaring daggers straight at Finn, never letting go of his magic.

“This isn’t some inferiority complex, mate. Michael’s my friend.”

“Clifford doesn’t have any friends.”

Michael’s cheeks burn, and he wants to disappear into the stone wall behind him. He’s sure he could, that the other three wouldn’t even notice his absence if he were to tear a void in the magic behind his back and fall into an abandoned classroom third floors above them. Finn and Archer are too preoccupied with Calum, and Calum with them.

It’s only Calum’s words playing on repeat in his mind _Michael’s my friend_ that keeps Michael firmly planted in place. He doesn’t quite believe them. He hasn’t really spoken to Calum since the first few months of their first year at Hogwarts when they finally realized what everybody’d been telling them all along: Slytherins can’t be friends with other houses. Admittedly, it’d been Michael who’d learned the lesson quickest. Weeks of limping through his own common room had taught him the true boundaries of Slytherin house. As a tiny eleven year old separated from his best friend for the first time, Michael had drawn into himself and as far away from Calum as he could. Calum might not have completely understood it in the beginning, but it’s been four and a half years, and this is the first time he’s asserted their friendship.

“He does. You bastards have brainwashed him otherwise,” snaps Calum.

He doesn’t bother with magic this time. He punches Finn right in the face. It gets him a stinging spell from Archer’s wand, and he curses as the pain spreads across body, radiating from the side of his neck where the spell had landed. His magic drops Finn to the ground, and Finn jumps to his feet almost immediately, ignoring the blood that’s pouring out of the cut across his cheek where Calum’s family ring had busted his skin open.

Finn lunges for Calum. It’s starting to get out of hand—not that it isn’t already or hasn’t been since the moment Calum walked up, spells flying—so Michael draws his wand from the pocket of his robes for the first time since this encounter began, and he bellows the first spell that comes to mind. Time slows down in the entire corridor. Calum’s surprised eyes meet Michael’s right there in the midst of the time-delay, and time almost stops completely as Michael falters in his concentration. But he sees Archer reaching for another spell, his wand pointed straight at Calum’s heart, right where the curses hurt the most, and Michael snaps right back into action. He flourishes his wand in the precise movements he’d spent hours and hours perfecting from a book covered in a layer of dust in the library one day when he was bored and lonely at the beginning the term. Bright pink light fills the entire corridor, blindingly so, and even Michael has to close his eyes against the onslaught.

When he opens them, everything is covered in thick slimy goo, and Finn and Archer are gone, nothing more than slugs on the floor in the places they had been standing. Calum’s in the midst of it all, covered from head-to-toe in the aftereffects of Michael’s spell, and he’s staring straight at Michael with a look of awe on his face that’s rarely ever before been directed at Michael, and it warms Michael inside, unknots his chest for the first time since Calum showed up.

“Clifford! Hood! What in Godric’s name do you think you two are doing?” demands Professor McGongall, Headmistress of Hogwarts, from the opposite end of the corridor.

She’s standing too far away from them to have been affected by Michael’s spell, but Michael can see the disapproving quirk of her eyebrows from this far away. Whatever warmth had filled his chest just a moment ago in the face of Calum’s awe disintegrates almost immediately. He feels the urge to escape through the void in the magic of the castle once again.

“Fighting is not permitted in my corridors.”

“We weren’t fighting, professor. Honestly.”

“Silence, Hood. Twenty points from Hufflepuff for disorderly conduct, and sixty from Slytherin for the same,” says Professor McGonagall tensely, and Michael’s shoulders fall in shame. He’s not much of one who cares for the House Cup—his relationship with Slytherin and his housemates are too shaky for him to really care about glory—he’s never lost his house so many points in one go. She looks to him then, her eyes flashing at the disarray of the corridor around her. “Though I am not one to let good wand work go unnoticed. Forty points to Slytherin for your excellent work in charms and transfiguration, Mister Clifford. Now, kindly scoop up your classmates and escort them to Madam Pomfrey for treatment, and please refrain from further use of magic in my halls.”

Professor McGonagall looks between Michael and Calum one last time before she turns on her heel and walks off. Michael stares after her, hardly able to believe that she’s just awarded him points for breaking half of a dozen school rules. A small smile works its way on his face. He’s just won the most amount of points in a single go for his house, and that’s an accomplishment of which he should be proud, even if it was for Slytherin.

“That was brilliant!” says Calum, eyes wide and full of awe once again when Michael turns to meet them. He’s grinning from ear-to-ear, barely concerned with the fact that he’s just lost his house points. “You’ve got teach me that spell.”

“Oh, er—it’s not that difficult,” mumbles Michael, dropping his gaze to the slime-covered floor.

He’s lying, of course. The spell is graduate-level wandwork. It took him ages to learn, but it’d taken him even longer to sneak the book out of the restricted section of the library in order to even find out about it in the first place. The thing about being completely and utterly, one hundred percent alone for four and a half years is that Michael’s already blown through all of the unrestricted books on wandwork. He’s not one who really likes the library except for the fact that nobody looks at him pityingly if he’s sitting alone at a table, unlike, say, in the Great Hall, which he tries to avoid as much as possible, so he doesn’t have to be the pathetic person sitting by himself at the end of the Slytherin table.

Calum’s grin dims like he knows Michael’s lying, even after five years of maturing without one another and not speaking, either. He doesn’t try to contradict Michael, only repeats his desire to learn the spell. Michael nods this time, because he doesn’t really know what else to do. The other thing about being completely and utterly, one hundred percent alone for four and a half years is that Michael doesn’t really know how to interact with other people, much less the boy that he’s secretly admired from afar since the day in the third year when Calum’s stupid Ravenclaw friend Luke pantsed him right in front of the entire Great Hall and Michael finally realized why he was so less interested in girls like the other Slytherin boys his age were.

“So can you fix this?” asks Calum after a few moments. He’s looking down at the mess of his robes then up at Michael. “I don’t think Vector would appreciate me showing up to class like this, and if we have to take those goons to the hospital wing, I won’t have time to stop by the dorm before class.”

Michael nods, but he’s honestly not sure he knows the counter spell as well as the original. He loves wandwork, so he dabbles in a bit of everything he can get his hands on, but there’s a difference between learning spells for fun and learning their counterspells in the event that he’ll actually need them. He doesn’t want to look like a fool in front of Calum—or any more so than he’s already looked—so he centers his magic inside himself and recites the counterspell. His movements are a little choppier, and his wandwork is less practiced, but in the end, the goo disappears, and that’s all that matters.

Calum’s grinning brightly at him again, like Michael’s just performed an utter miracle right before his very eyes. Michael can almost forget about the letter that’s still floating midair between them. Almost. But when Calum’s eyes flicker toward the ink on the parchment, Michael’s face reddens. He flicks his wand toward the letter, and it catches fire, burning before them. The damage, though, has already been done. Calum’s grin is gone now, and he’s biting his bottom lip uncertainly, like one does when they’ve accidentally stumbled across something they shouldn’t have read.

“We should probably get them to the hospital wing before McGonagall comes back and gives us detention on top of our lost points,” says Calum.

It’s obvious that he’s trying not to broach the subject of the letter, that he’s doing his best not to make Michael feel even worse than his parents made him feel. Michael nods compliantly. He feels uncomfortable now that Calum knows that not only the Slytherins hate him but his family does, too. Michael’s got nobody. He’s fine with that, really, but he’s not fine with this little fact being so overtly pointed out to other people, namely somebody like Calum who is well-liked by all his peers and his family.

Michael flicks his wand toward the slugs that are his housemates, and he levitates them a few inches above the floor. He doesn’t care enough to be nice to them, so if they topple over a few of the stairs or runs into some of the corners on the way to the hospital wing, he’s not too concerned. Calum walks side-by-side with him, silently, though this is barely a one-man job. Michael doesn’t know if he appreciates the company or would rather have just sent Calum off. He still hasn’t made up his mind by the time they reach their destination. They make their excuses to Madam Pomfrey, who doesn’t condone Michael’s wandwork whatsoever, but Calum jumps in and takes the heat for him.

“It was my fault. I wanted to see how the spell worked, and I convinced Mikey to show me, so you should really be yelling at me, not him.”

Madam Pomfrey stops mid-word and stares at him, the golden Hufflepuff student she’s admired like all the rest of the staff have since the moment he graced these grounds as an unsorted first year. Michael turns to gawk at him as well—because that’s not what happened at all—but Calum casually steps on his foot. He snaps out of it, realizing the save for what it is. He nods agreeingly when Madam Pomfrey turns on him for confirmation. She looks between the two wizards for a long moment before she sighs and sends them on their way. She can’t really yell at her favorite student.

“That was brilliant!” says Calum when they’re two corridors away, and he’s finally brave enough to speak again. “Did you see her face when we brought those two in? They’ll be up for a week, at the least! Man, Luke and Ash’ll be so miffed they missed it!”

Michael smiles automatically, but he doesn’t share Calum’s enthusiasm. He’s personally glad neither of Calum’s two best friends were with him to witness Michael’s stupendous performance of magic. He likes just having something to share with Calum alone. Besides, Luke is a stuck-up Ravenclaw who knocked laceflies into Michael’s almost perfect potion last week, and he and Ashton had giggled about it when Professor Slughorn had deducted points from Michael’s already failing grade because of it. So he doesn’t like Luke, and he’s pretty sure Luke doesn’t like him, and Ashton’s a Gryffindor who would never look twice at a Slytherin. It’s better that it was only Calum.

“Hey, er, I’ve got to get to Arithmancy or Vector’ll fail me, but this was fun, yeah?” asks Calum almost a beat later.

He’s less enthusiastic this time, having picked up on Michael’s gloom. He’s stopped walking, and it’s prompted Michael to do the same. He looks kind of sad, like he’s afraid that he’s offended Michael, and that’s stupid, because Calum just saved him from a dressing-down by Madam Pomfrey. Nobody’s ever really stepped in front of him in defense before. It’s the nicest thing any of his peers have done for him in the entire four and a half years he’s been here, unless he counts that one time when Harry Styles passed him a treacle tart from the Ravenclaw table because there was none left on the Slytherin one after Yvette had purposefully taken it right out from underneath Michael’s fork. He’s not sure he can count that one, really, because Harry had only witnessed such an embarrassing moment for Michael because he’d been too busy craning neck to get a glimpse of Louis Tomlinson talking to Zayn Malik at the opposite end of the Slytherin table. He hadn’t really intended to be nice to Michael in the first place.

“Yeah, it was,” says Michael quietly. He feels sad, but he’s not lying. He’s had fun, aside from the utter humiliation of the letter and Calum finding out about it. He just knows that this isn’t his life typically, and the moment Calum leaves, he’ll go back to being lonely, friendless Michael. At least with Calum here, Michael can pretend like he’s not some social pariah unwanted by his classmates or his family as a whole.

“I’ll see you around, Mikey.”

Calum grins one last time, and then he’s gone, and all Michael can think is _yeah, but you probably won’t care if you do_.


	2. Chapter 2

Michael stands alone on the edge of the Forbidden Forest. The rest of the class is carefully picking out hedgehogs from a mess of knarls, but Michael’s been finished for ten minutes now. His prized hedgehog sits on his shoulder. He’d picked it, because it seemed lonely, separated as it was from the other creatures in the pit. It’d curled up in his hand the moment he’d touched it, and Professor Hagrid praised his keen eye, but it wasn’t like that, really. Michael just didn’t want to creature to be lonely like he was, outcasted by its own kind and others alike. Now, it’s snoozing away on his shoulder. He likes the little creature and thinks he might sneak it out of class. Surely Professor Hagrid won’t notice if one of the hedgehogs is missing.

He’s supposed to be sketching his hedgehog now, labeling all of the differences between it and a common knarl, but he’s awful at drawing. He found a good spell in one of the books in the library a couple of weeks ago that might work for this assignment in a pinch. It’s not like Professor Hagrid is really paying any attention to his laziness right now anyway. Finn somehow managed to stumble across a nest of fire crabs behind Professor Hagrid’s hut, and it’s all the professor can do to lure the beasts away from Michael’s fellow Slytherin.

Michael hopes the fire crabs do a number of Finn, because ever since he and Archer got out of the hospital wing a few days ago, they’ve made it their mission to remind Michael about the letter they so rudely read. It’s nothing too different from how they usually interact with him—drawing on his weaknesses to knock him straight to his knees—but they don’t just stop at him anymore. They’ve started to bother Calum, and Michael hates that, because it’s all his fault that Calum’s even on their radar. Sure, Slytherins don’t like Hufflepuffs, but neither Finn nor Archer has ever really cared before last week to pick fights with Calum. They do it quite often now, attempting to corner Calum in unwatched areas of the castle, but he’s not really an easy target. Unlike Michael, Calum’s almost always got somebody with, either Luke or Ashton, and it’s not so easy for Finn and Archer to draw him out alone. But it doesn’t mean they don’t try.

For his part, Michael just tries to stay out of Calum’s way. He’s admired the Hufflepuff from afar for almost two years now. Just because Calum once came to his aid, wand blazing, it doesn’t change anything. Not really. Michael’s still the weird, lonely Slytherin, and Calum is still the prince of the school. The least Michael can do is to keep away from Calum. The farther away he is, the more likely it is that Finn and Archer will leave Calum alone. It worked once four years ago when the older Slytherins didn’t like the idea of Michael trying to remain friends with a Hufflepuff, so it’s bound to work again now.

The hedgehog on Michael’s shoulder stretches in its sleep. It’s close to falling off, and Michael nudges it back to safety. It doesn’t wake up, and Michael thinks he should name it if he’s going to steal it, make their relationship of pet and owner a little more personal. He stares out across the Forbidden Forest, his back to the rest of the class, as he thinks. _Newt_ is a good name, if he does say so himself. He mutters it to the sleeping hedgehog to see if the tiny creature has any objections. Newt-the-recently-named-hedgehog just sniffles his nose in response, eyes still firmly shut. Michael takes it as a sign of acquiescence.

There’s a yelp behind Michael, and he turns around, startled. He half-expects it to be Finn again, but it’s not. He’s safely on the other side of the fence, charred but otherwise unfortunately unharmed. Professor Hagrid thunders away from Finn to the true source of the sound, and it’s Calum’s dumb Gryffindor friend Ashton. The firecrabs have turned on him, no longer able to get to Finn. He’s stuck in the middle of the mess of knarls and hedgehogs with no escape from the crabs.

Professor Hagrid pulls out his umbrella and sparks shoot out of the end of it, but it’s no use. It just riles up the firecrabs. They become more aggressive. Ashton fumbles for his own wand. It gets stuck in the tangles of his robes, and he trips over his feet, and the entire class laughs. Nobody steps forward to offer Ashton any help, because Ashton is known for getting himself into hilarious predicaments. The firecrabs haven’t quite reached him yet, so he’s not in any immediate danger, but Michael can see the panic rise in Ashton’s eyes from where he’s standing away from it all on the edge of the Forbidden Forest. Nobody else pays it any attention, everyone too caught up in the humor of the situation.

Professor Hagrid has moved onto trying to corral the firecrabs away from Ashton. It’s not working either. Michael can’t just stand back and let Ashton get hurt. It’s not funny at all, but not even the Gryffindors have picked up on the gravity of the situation. Michael’s not a hero. He’s not, but he’s seen how highly Calum thinks of Ashton—has seen the way they look out for each other even when they’re playing on opposing sides for the Quidditch Cup—and he can’t help but to think that Calum would’ve already jumped in and saved the day. Probably cursed everybody who dared to laugh, too.

Calum’s not here, but Michael is, and this is the least that Michael can do as a thanks for saving him from Madam Pomfrey the other day. He pulls out his wand. He advances toward Ashton, and he’s got the perfect spell for this situation. He centers his magic. The incantation falls from his lips, and a jet of bright blue water shoots out from his wand, driving back the firecrabs into their enclosure and away from Ashton.

Once the danger’s passed, everything goes silent. The entire class turns to face Michael, but it’s Ashton’s large, surprised eyes that Michael meets. He fidgets under Ashton’s intense gaze. He tucks his wand back into the pocket of his robes, and he swallows the spit that’s gathered in his mouth. His cheeks burn. Doubt begins to set it, but he stands by what he did, because he did it for Calum. Nobody’s yet to speak, and the silence stretches out between them all.

“Well done, Clifford. Ten points t’ Slytherin,” says Professor Hagrid. Michael doesn’t turn to face him, but he can hear the surprise loud and clear in the professor’s voice. “Take ‘im t’ Madam Pomfrey. Off yah go.”

Ashton gets to his feet on his own accord. He doesn’t look particularly ruffled from the firecrabs, aside from the panic that still lingers deep in his eyes. The entire class watches as a whole as Ashton slowly walks toward Michael, and neither Michael nor Ashton have yet to break eye contact with one another. It takes the entire space between them, until Ashton is standing just before him, for Michael to realize that his initial assessment of Ashton was incorrect. He’s limping, favoring his right leg. Michael glances down. There’s a rip in the knee of Ashton’s trousers, and bright red blood trails down his leg from the wound. It looks painful.

“Mind giving me a hand, mate?” asks Ashton once he’s stood in front of Michael for a solid minute without any reaction. Michael’s eyes snap back up to Ashton’s face, and there’s a grimace there. “Don’t think I can make it on my own.”

Michael’s not entirely sure how truthful Ashton’s being with him. He seen Ashton take a bludger to the shoulder and still finish a quidditch match, merely moving his beater’s bat to his non-dominant hand. Afterward, he’d worn a sling for two weeks even with Madam Pomfrey’s careful ministrations. Ashton’s much tougher than an injured knee, but Michael doesn’t call him out on it. Michael doesn’t really know him outside of the fact that he’s almost inseparable from Calum and Luke.

Belatedly, Michael nods. He winces at how pathetic he must look to Ashton, barely able to interact with somebody his own age. His cheeks are already burning with him embarrassment, but more blood rushes to them, and he knows his humiliation is plain for Ashton to see. They’re standing too close for the Gryffindor to miss it, really.

Michael plucks Newt-the-hedgehog off his shoulder and drops him gently into his empty robe pocket. The hedgehog had woken up when Michael had jumped to Ashton’s aid, but he’s already beginning to snooze again. Ashton quirks an eyebrow at Michael, eyes flitting down to Michael’s pocket where the hedgehog is nestling around to get comfortable. Michael stares back challengingly. Ashton grins but doesn’t comment on the fact that Michael’s stealing the pet. It’s like a secret between the two of them. Sort of like a secret between friends, but Michael doesn’t have any of those.

Ashton holds out his arm, and Michael ducks underneath it. Together, they start stumbling toward the school. Ashton smells like the forest and like broomstick oil, and Michael tries not to think about how this is the closest he’s ever been to any of his classmates. He’s watched his fellow students for years. He’s seen friends hug each other, and he’s seen Ashton in particular jump on Calum’s back unexpectedly dozens of times but always garnering a laugh from Calum. Nobody’s ever really wanted to hug Michael. Here, as he’s helping Ashton across the lawn, he can’t help but to pretend like he’s just like any other Hogwarts student. That he’s not just helping a random classmate to the infirmary but rather a friend, one who chose him instead of being assigned to him.

It’s a complete fabrication by Michael’s mind, but it makes him feel nice all the same.

“Totally unmanly, wasn’t it? Stupid firecrabs. Why in Godric’s name didn’t Hagrid have those cages locked?” gasps out Ashton as they near the entrance to the school. He’s breathing heavily and leaning on Michael more than he originally had been. He tries for a laugh but it turns into a groan when he trips over a step. Michael has to hold onto him tighter to keep them both from falling face-first into the stone ground. “Glad Luke wasn’t there—or Cal. They’d’ve probably gotten detention or expelled or something for cursing everyone for laughing. They’d find it funny afterward, of course. Would’ve gotten a right kick out of it. Wouldn’t let me live it down, either. It’ll be bad enough when they find out.”

“It wasn’t funny,” says Michael quietly. It doesn’t matter, because Ashton can undoubtedly hear him with as close as they are to one another. He thinks it’s important that Ashton know he didn’t find it humorous like their classmates did.

Ashton’s quiet for a moment. They walk down the corridor then turn a corner. They’re not going as quickly as they once did, and Michael can tell how every successive step is more painful than the last. He thinks about stopping, about offering to flat out carry Ashton instead, but he doesn’t. They don’t know each other that well, and they’re almost to the infirmary anyway.

“Thank you for—you know, getting them off me,” says Ashton finally. He looks over at Michael, and it takes Michael a moment to realize that he’s waiting for Michael to meet his eyes before he continues speaking. “Cal wasn’t lying when he said you were handy with a wand. Luke and I thought he was just being his normal besotted self, you know? But, Merlin’s beard, I’m glad he wasn’t.”

Ashton’s eyes are wide, brimming with sincerity. He raises his eyebrows at Michael like his words are supposed to mean the world, but Michael can hardly process anything beyond the word _besotted_. He wants to ask Ashton what he means, if that’s just his way of ribbing Calum even when the Hufflepuff in question isn’t around to defend himself or if it’s something more than that.

He doesn’t get a chance. They’re at the hospital wing. Ashton’s obviously in pain, and Michael’s not a selfish person. He locks away his thoughts of Calum as he drags Ashton through the doors. Madam Pomfrey descends on them immediately, fussing over Ashton and demanding Michael escort him to the nearest bed. Michael does. Ashton’s shoulders sag with relief when he finally gets his weight off his injured leg.

Madam Pomfrey rushes off to her office to get whatever is necessary to treat Ashton, and Michael supposes he’s done his part. Ashton’s in safe hands now. Surely, he’d much rather the weird Slytherin with a penchant for complex spellwork straight out of dusty textbooks hidden away in the library just leave him alone.

Michael turns to walk away, but he’s stopped by a hand on his wrist. The touch is soft though firm. Michael jumps in surprise. He looks down at it, stares at the long fingers encircling his wrist, acutely aware that nobody’s ever really reached out for him before. Slowly, he looks up to meet Ashton’s gaze.

“Stay. Please?”

Michael nods on instinct, because there’s really no other answer in the face of Ashton’s obvious vulnerability. He’s never really been asked to stay with anybody before either, so he doesn’t really know the protocol here, but he whips out his wand to conjure a chair he can sit in. He continues to pretend like he’s just like everybody else and like Ashton’s his friend.

Madam Pomfrey returns with an arsenal of potions. She waves her wand above Ashton’s knee. She doesn’t say anything about Michael’s presence as she heals Ashton. When she’s finished, she tells him he has to stay for an hour until the potions finish their work in his body, and then he’s free to go as long as he’s got somebody who can watch him.

It’s as she’s walking away that the doors to the infirmary burst open, and Calum and Luke bound inside. They make a bee line for Ashton’s bed, hardly paying Madam Pomfrey any mind when she reprimands them for disorderly conduct in her hospital wing. They crowd around Ashton’s bed, eyes wide with concern, and Michael scoots farther back in his chair, trying to appear as small as possible until he can leave. Clearly, he’s no longer needed.

“What happened?” demands Luke.

“How’d you know I was in here?” asks Ashton, ignoring his question. He looks from Luke to Calum then back again. “There’s still half of an hour before dinner.”

“We were in Divination, weren’t we?” says Luke. “Saw the whole thing.”

Ashton blinks, impressed, and his awe lasts an entire five seconds before Calum barks out a laugh.

“Through the window, Ash. We saw you and Mikey limping across the grounds. Geez. You’ll believe anything Luke tells you.”

Luke glares at Calum for spoiling his ruse, but it’s without heat. Asthon’s cheeks turn a pretty shade of pink. He reaches over and punches Luke in the shoulder. It’s not a very hard hit, because he’s not really close enough for that, but Luke still grimaces and takes a step away from the bed.

“But, really, mate, what happened?” asks Luke.

Michael’s never heard the Ravenclaw sound so concerned about anything. His interaction with Luke is admittedly limited to the occasions in potions when Luke sabotages Michael’s poor work for kicks and giggles and that time last year in defense class whenever the professor chose Luke and Michael to demonstrate a hex-deflection spell, and Luke landed a good Twitchy-Ears Hex that took three days to wear off. So he’s never really been in a situation to witness this side of Luke before. But Luke’s not paying Michael any mind now, choosing to keep his attention solely on Ashton, who is sitting up in the bed before him. Ashton glances at Michael briefly before smiling sheepishly up at Luke.

“Hagrid let the firecrabs lose. Those things _really_ don’t like me, but Mikey saved the day, didn’t you, Mikey?

He turns to Michael, and so do the other two boys. Michael sinks farther back into his chair in the face of all of the attention. He glances toward the door. He’s already missed his chance to leave relatively unnoticed, as he’d been too caught up in watching Ashton interact with Luke. It’s never good for him when he’s got this many sets of eyes on him, or so it hasn’t been thus far in Michael’s Hogwarts career. Yes, he impressed Calum the other day with the slug-spell and he saved Ashton from the firecrabs just now, but that doesn’t seem to matter to Luke, who is regarding him like he always has, like all of the other students at Hogwarts always do: like Michael’s nothing more than the speck of dirt on the bottom of his shoe. He kind of wants to just sink through the seat of this chair and never come out again.

But Calum’s grinning proudly at him, and Ashton is, too, so Michael swallows the taste of fear in the back of his mouth, and he nods once. Luke still looks unimpressed.

“Brilliant,” says Calum. “See? I told you he was brilliant!”

Ashton laughs, happily and not at all meanly like people normally do when it’s directed at Michael. He nods agreeably with Calum, and he launches into the full story of the firecrabs. Calum plops down on the foot of Ashton’s bed, leaning back on his hands so that he can give Ashton his full, undivided attention. Luke sits on the bed next to Ashton, eyeing Michael wearily, like he’s wondering why the hell Michael’s even still here.

Michael stands up, feeling hot all over. He’s no use to Ashton anymore, not now that Calum and Luke are here to give him company and to watch out for him. It was nice while it lasted, Michael being able to pretend like he and Ashton were friends, but it’s over now, obviously. It’s better that he leaves them to their own before he makes everything uncomfortable. He always tends to make everybody feel uncomfortable when he’s around them for too long.

“Hey! Where are you going?” demands Calum, cutting Ashton off mid-word. He grabs Michael’s wrist like Ashton did earlier, and Michael immediately freezes, turning back to glance at Calum. “Stay. Please?”

For a moment, Michael says nothing. He stares at Calum then he looks at Ashton, whose grinning encouragingly, and then at Luke, who isn’t as eager as his friends but isn’t making any attempt to disagree with Calum. Michael’s at a loss of what to do. People never ask for his company. They always seem happiest when he’s gone, so he doesn’t understand why he’s been asked twice now in the span of just a little while to stay.

“Yeah, c’mon, Mikey,” says Ashton when it’s obvious that Michael’s not capable of doing anything except stare at them all. “Stay. I can’t tell this story all on my own, and somebody’s got to defend my dignity when I tell these wankers about how I couldn’t get my own bloody wand out of my trousers.”

“Had the same problem last night, didn’t you?” quips Luke, falling into an easy banter with Ashton instead of choosing to support his friends’ request that Michael stay. He’s not looking at Michael anymore, and maybe that’s purposeful. Maybe this is his way of not disagreeing with his friends. “When you had to have my help?”

Ashton blushes a pretty shade of pink again, and he shoots Luke another glare, but he bites down on his bottom lip, and Michael thinks there’s definitely a story behind it all. It’s not his story to know, but he suddenly wants to know. He wants to know this story, this secret between friends, like he’s never really allowed himself to want to know anything like this in the entire time he’s been at Hogwarts.

Calum’s hand is still tight around his wrist. Michael looks back at him, and he’s smiling at Michael. He tugs gently, and Michael falls into his shoulder, weightless. Calum huffs out a laugh. He scoots over on the bed to pull Michael up with him, and Michael settles in to help Ashton recount the tale of the firecrabs. Newt-the-hedgehog moves around in his pocket, disturbed by all of the movement over the past few minutes. He soon settles back down into his sleep, so Michael leaves him be.

For the first time since he was sorted into Slytherin, he doesn’t feel quite as much of an outcast, sitting here with Ashton and Luke and Calum. He smiles to himself. He leans his head on Calum’s shoulder, and he doesn’t wish he were anywhere else.


	3. Chapter 3

Potions is not Michael’s strong suit. It never has been. He can wave a wand and make his magic do pretty much whatever he wants, given all of the hours he’s spent pouring over spell books in the library in an attempt to keep from feeling so lonely, but he’s never quite mastered the art of potioneering. It doesn’t help that he’s not Professor Slughorn’s favorite student, either. When Michael first arrived at Hogwarts, sporting the illustrious name of Clifford, Professor Slughorn had immediately extended him an invitation to the Slug Club, but it became apparent within the first few weeks that Michael’s status among his peers undermined any weight his surname might have carried. Professor Slughorn never extended another invitation again.

Michael stands over his cauldron and squints his eyes at the board where the instructions are listed. He’s either on step four or five, but his potion is neither the pink nor the turquoise color it’s supposed to be for either of those steps. He glances down at the ingredients remaining on his workstation, and he gets a sinking feeling in the pit of his stomach. He’s done it again. He’s forgotten to add the powdered moonstone before the hellebore.

Professor Slughorn walks by at that moment. He looks down at Michael’s potion, and he clicks his tongue in disappointment. It’s the most familiar sound to Michael’s ears over the past four and a half years. His shoulders slump as the professor walks off without another word. He’s not even sure he can salvage this assignment, and the last thing he needs is for his parents to receive another letter that he’s failing potions. They’ve already told him they don’t want him home for the holidays. He doesn’t want to give them any more reason to be disappointed in him.

“Looks like you’ve forgotten a step, mate,” says Ashton, turning around at his workstation to peer into Michael’s cauldron. He makes a face at what he sees.

Michael glances up at him, surprised. He’d stayed in the hospital wing with Ashton, Calum, and Luke until halfway through dinner when Ashton’s leg was pronounced healed right and Madam Pomfrey released him. While the other three had headed toward the Great Hall, famished, Michael ducked out to attend to his dinner all alone in the kitchens where he could get away from the cold glares Luke periodically shot him. He hadn’t wanted to overstep his boundaries. They weren’t friends, not really, and it was obvious that Luke preferred it that way. Michael was used to being unwanted.

Now, Ashton’s got his back turned on his own perfectly concocted potion, and he’s tapping his wand above Michael’s cauldron. The contents within disappear. Michael stares at his empty cauldron, feeling like a fool worse than he’s felt in a long time. He’s spent all class working on this stupid potion, and, no, it wasn’t going good for him, but he at least had something to turn in at the end to be graded upon. Ashton’s just erased it all, and Michael’s got nothing, and Michael might’ve expected such a cruel trick from Luke but not from Ashton, not after how _nice_ Ashton had been to him yesterday.

“Here,” says Ashton.

He waves his wand above Michael’s cauldron again, and it fills straight up to the water line with a pristinely white potion. Luke, sitting next to him, squawks, glaring over his shoulder at the pair of them, and, for a moment, Michael’s confused. Ashton laughs, and it stays behind in his grin.

“Used to have to do this for Cal all the time. He’s dreadful at potions.”

“Er—do what?” asks Michael, because he’s still not sure what’s just happened or how he’s got a perfect batch of potion in his cauldron right now. He glances at Luke, who is sitting facing the board, and he sees the sharp set of his shoulders, like he’s personally offended by Ashton speaking to Michael.

“Transfer spell,” explains Ashton, and the grin’s not left his lips. “Took some potion from mine and Lukey’s cauldrons and put it in yours. _Voilà_. It’s how Cal managed to pass the summer potions course and skip the class this year—he sent Lukey and me all of his assignments, and, well… he’ll be playing for, like, Puddlemere United or something after we graduate, won’t he? It’s not like they care if he can brew the Draught of Peace.”

Michael glances down at the potion in his cauldron again, and then slowly looks back up at Ashton. He’s still not sure he knows what is happening. It seems like Ashton’s _helping_ him, but that’s not right. Nobody ever helps Michael. He’s just the weird Slytherin that everybody’d rather see fail. His classmates usually go out of their way to mess with him instead of help him. Ashton’s smile slowly starts to slip off his face. He glances uncertainly at Luke, who’s still staring straight ahead at the board like Michael doesn’t even exist.

“I’m, er—I thought you might want some help. Should I not have…?” asks Ashton, turning back to face Michael. He chews on his bottom lip uncertainly, and it’s not a look that’s pretty on him. “I’m sorry. I’m always overstepping my—”

“No—no. It’s, er, nice. Er, thank you,” says Michael in a rush. His voice goes awkwardly high-pitched in his frenzy to assure Ashton. He’d do anything to erase the doubt from Ashton’s person right now, because it twists at his heart. Ashton’s been so nice to him, and he doesn’t really have to be. Nobody is ever really nice to him. He doesn’t want to take this for granted. “I was just, er, curious about the spell, really.”

Luke snorts. It’s obviously directed at Michael, but he doesn’t turn around to face him. Michael’s cheeks burn in embarrassment. Ashton shoots Luke a dirty glare that he doesn’t see. It’s bizarre that somebody would side with Michael, even in regard to something as trivial as this moment. He can’t help but to let his mouth fall open in awe as Ashton looks back at him. He must look like an idiot.

“Luke’s older brother taught it to us. I can show you, if you like?”

Professor Slughorn is giving them the evil eye from across the classroom, suspicious as to why somebody has chosen to turn around to speak with the ostracized Slytherin, and Michael knows it’d be stupid to say yes to Ashton’s proposition. He’d like to know the spell. Of course, he would. He loves learning from spell books, and he thinks learning a new spell from a classmate might be even more magical, but it’s not the right time for him to say yes.

Ashton follows Michael’s line of sight, and he nods, understanding without Michael needing to say anything in response. He winks at Michael, mouths _later_ , and turns back around to his workstation. Michael stares at the back of Ashton’s head, at the curls that are even more unruly in the midst of all of the smoke rising off the dozens of bubbling potions. He wonders why Ashton’s being so nice to him—why he’s carrying on as if they’re old friends—after nobody’s ever really given him a chance in all of his past four and a half years here at Hogwarts. He stares until his eyes water from not blinking and Luke glares over his shoulder at Michael, clearly unhappy with the odd Slytherin’s fascination with his friend.

Michael meets Luke’s eyes, and they’re not kind, but they’re not unfamiliar, either. Luke’s looking at him like everybody else does. It’s this normality that makes Michael remember himself in the wake of Ashton’s kindness. Ashton is just being nice because Michael came to his aid during Care of Magical Creatures yesterday. Michael shouldn’t construe it as anything else. He’s got no right, really.

Later, when Professor Slughorn calls for final vials, Michael looks down at his cauldron of perfectly concocted potion. He sighs. He’s done fine all by himself since he was a tiny first year. Ashton doesn’t really owe him anything. Michael would have saved anyone from those firecrabs, especially Calum’s friend, so it’s not like he’s owed a debt. It’s not like Michael can really accept Ashton’s pity.

He grabs for his wand and waves it above his cauldron, vanishing the potion inside. He’s got nothing to turn in now, but he wouldn’t have really gotten any points for his own failed attempt to brew the potion, not with how much Professor Slughorn is put off by Michael’s inability to live up to the prestige of his family name. He pockets his wand when he’s done with it. He shoves his textbook into his bag, and he doesn’t look up at Ashton, who has turned back around to face him, as he hurries out of the room.

Michael’s a Slytherin, and people should remember that, especially Gryffindors with misguided notions of compensation. He doesn’t feel guilty. He swears he doesn’t. It’s better for everyone if he doesn’t broadcast Ashton’s kindness for the weird Slytherin. Michael’s already learned his lesson with Calum, and even now Archer and Finn still haven’t stopped trying to be mean to the Hufflepuff. Michael doesn’t want the same fate to fall to Ashton, so this is for the best, really.

Michael makes it all the way to the library before he stops lying to himself. He hides away in the back, tucked between two large book cases of unused volumes, and he plops down on the squashy arm chair there. He draws his knees up to his chin, wrapping his arms around his legs. He bites down hard on his bottom lip, but it does nothing to stop the pitiful sob from escaping him.

It’s stupid, really, and it’s entirely his own fault, but it still hurts all the same to be alone. He’s been lonely for too long. He doesn’t know any different, and he’s not sure how to change that. He’s just been a typical Slytherin to Ashton after the Gryffindor tried to help. He’s done what everybody’s expected of him—to throw Ashton’s kindness right back in his face.

Maybe Michael isn’t any better than everybody says. Maybe the reason Slytherins can’t be friends with other houses is that Slytherins aren’t equipped with the necessary people skills to do anything other than push everyone away who dares to pity them. Maybe that’s what his older housemates meant when they taught him as a tiny first year to stay away from the other three houses. Maybe it wasn’t about Slytherin pride at all but rather individual survivability.

All these thoughts fly through Michael’s head unhindered. He grabs for his wand to cast a silencing spell, but the damage has already been done. A figure steps around the corner to this hidden away place, and Michael doesn’t even need to catch the hint of a yellow and black tie to know that it’s Calum.

A flush of humiliation reddens Michael’s pale skin, and he tries to collect himself in the millisecond before Calum speaks. He tries to pretend like he’s not crying away in the library over hurting Calum’s friend’s feeling. It doesn’t work. The tear stains streaked down his face are testament enough to the pathetic state of his being.

“Ash is pretty upset, you know,” says Calum casually.

He whips his wand from the pocket of his trousers and performs the spell Michael had neglected to, leaving the both of them to privacy. He doesn’t move from his spot, just looks at Michael with an unreadable expression. Michael kind of wants to disappear right now. To just rip a void in Hogwarts’ weakened magic and fall right through it to an abandoned part of the castle. Or anywhere, really. Anywhere that’s not here with Calum blaming him for hurting Ashton’s feelings. Michael can do a better job of that on his own.

“Ran into him and Luke a few minutes ago. He was trying to help, you know.”

Michael nods, but Calum’s not done speaking.

“That’s what friends do. I mean, I thought we were friends now.”

It’s everything Michael’s ever wanted to hear, but it’s everything he’s never been allowed to. This time is no different. His heart skips a beat in his chest. His eyes meet Calum’s at the word _friends_ , and his voice gets caught somewhere in his throat. Calum can’t be offering friendship just like that. He can’t. Not to Michael. Not when Michael’s the reason that Slytherins have been mean to Calum recently.

“That’s what we are, right? We’re friends?”

Michael finds his voice, and he bows down to the Slytherin inside of him as a last attempt to keep Calum safe from the nuances that come along with Michael, and he says, “You don’t want to be friends with me.”

“I do, Mikey— _we_ do.”

“I’m a Slytherin. It wouldn’t work out.”

“You know, I didn’t believe that argument four years ago, either,” says Calum, and it’s really the first time he’s outright mentioned the fact that they were friends once upon a time. He may have said almost as much to Finn and Archer the day Michael turned them into slugs, but he didn’t mention anything about fighting against Michael’s wish to go their separate ways. Not like he is now. “I don’t give a damn if you’re a squib or a purple headed half-mongoose. I want to be your friend and so do Ashton and Luke, and we’re not going to let you hide behind your house again. You saved Ash the other day in Care of Magical Creatures, and you saved me against your housemates, and I know you’d do the same for Lukey if he needed it. That’s what friends do for one another, and you know what else they do? They help each other out in potions.”

“I didn’t want Ashton to feel like he had to help me because I’d helped him,” Michael says quietly, dropping his gaze to the floor as his cheeks heat up with embarrassment again. It sounds so stupid being spoken out loud. “I didn’t do what I did expecting anything in return. Anyone would’ve saved him from the firecrabs.”

“No one else did,” says Calum. His voice is gentle, but the force behind it is almost deadly. “There were nineteen other students in that class, and nobody else jumped to Ashton’s aid. Don’t you get it?”

Michael doesn’t think he does. He looks back up at Calum, and Calum’s staring at him like he should know all of the answers to the world’s problems, but Michael doesn’t even know the solution to his own. Calum leaves his post at the door. He crosses the tiny space to Michael, and he drops onto the arm of the chair, falling against Michael like they’re best friends already.

“They really did a number on you, didn’t they? Those Slytherins?”

Michael doesn’t say anything in response, but Calum sighs like he expects as much. He throws his arm around Michael’s shoulder, and he lays his cheek against the top of Michael’s head. Michael feels like he’s on fire, like he’s going to burn up with Calum pressed next to him. This is the most intimate anybody’s ever touched him. It’s barely anything to Calum, probably, but butterflies wage a war in Michael’s stomach. He closes his eyes. He doesn’t want this moment to end. Ever.

“We’re going to change that,” promises a new voice.

Michael knows it’s Ashton without even having to open his eyes. Sure enough, he looks over at the doorway, and Ashton’s standing in the same spot Calum was moments before. He’s grinning widely, happy as always even though Calum says Michael’s hurt his feelings. Luke’s standing with him, wrapped around Ashton’s back, chin resting on his shoulder. He’s not as obviously happy as Ashton, his gaze hard as it locks with Michael’s.

“I’m sorry,” says Michael, looking away from Luke to Ashton, because it’s easier to look at the Gryffindor than to deal with the fact that Luke doesn’t seem happy with the turn of events. “I didn’t—”

“I heard you. Lukey and I were eavesdropping,” interrupts Ashton. He’s unabashed in his declaration, only shoots a soft smile at Luke before looking back at Michael. “You’re bonkers, you know that? Like, yeah, you saved my arse yesterday, and the least I could do is help you out in potions, but that’s not why I did it. I like you. _We_ like you. I’d have done the same for Luke. Hell, I’ve done the same for Calum.”

“You’re not getting rid of us now, Michael Clifford,” says Calum, pulling away from Michael so that he can grin down at him. “Slytherin or no, you belong to us. Now, c’mon. Let’s go get dinner. I’m starving.”

Calum leaps to his feet, and he drags Michael up with him. He slings his arm around Michael’s shoulder, and Michael has to smile over at him, because this really is everything he could ever ask for. Michael thinks he might cry again. He tries hard not to. That’d be pathetic, sobbing twice in front of his newfound friends. He’s still flushed from getting caught the first time. All he’s ever really wanted are friends, and here he is being offered just that, and he doesn’t want to give them any reason to take it all back.

He can say he’s fine with his loneliness until he’s blue in the face. He can lie to himself all day long that he’s used to being unwanted—that his classmates not wanting to hang out with him and his parents not wanting him to come home doesn’t bother him at all. In the end, the truth of everything is that it’s awful being the odd one out. It’s horrible being the one nobody wants. Michael’s been ostracized for four and a half years now, and he should be used to it, but he’s not.

So now that he’s presented with something better—with friendship from people who seem to care about him—he feels like he’s on top of the world.

There’s no coming down.

Except there is.

Calum slips away from Michael as they twist through the narrow aisles in the library. Out in the corridor, they can walk four strong, but Luke hangs back from Calum and Ashton, who’ve taken the lead to the Great Hall. He stops right in front of Michael, and he looks him up and down, gaze steely.

“You’re still a dirty Slytherin,” sneers Luke. Gone is any pretense that he’s going along with Calum’s and Ashton’s desire to befriend Michael. There’s only Luke, pure and unadulterated, before him. It’s the same Luke who takes pleasure out of sabotaging Michael’s potions and who packs a mean punch behind humiliating hexes. “I don’t care if you’ve won them over with your woe-is-me attitude. If you even think about hurting Ash or Cal again, I’ll make sure you regret it. Understand?”

Michael nods, the euphoria in his chest dissipating and leaving him to feel empty inside. He’s used to these kinds of interactions with his classmates. It was stupid for him to expect any different from Luke, really, but it cuts him deep. Probably deeper than anything else at Hogwarts ever really has.

“Luke! Mikey! Are you lot coming?” calls Calum from down the corridor, and his voice echoes in the space between them. “We’re going to miss the roast!”

Luke gives Michael one last look-over, and he stalks off to catch up. He throws himself on Ashton as soon as he’s near enough, and Michael watches as Ashton brings an arm up to support Luke like Luke’s something vulnerable that needs to be protected, not like somebody who has just threatened Michael on Ashton’s behalf. It’s a conflicting puzzle right in front of Michael’s eyes. He doesn’t have time to piece it together.

Calum stops at the next corner. He turns around entirely to face Michael, and he waves him on. Michael feels the butterflies return to his stomach. He thinks of Luke’s words and of his new friendships, and it’s inappropriate to get clammy-handed right now. Calum’s his friend. Nothing more. Michael should be thankful enough for what they are, so he squares his shoulders and starts walking.

“Are you okay?” Calum asks, and then, because he must have some kind of clairvoyant power, he adds, “Luke didn’t say anything, did he?”

Michael glances at Luke and Ashton around the corner. They’ve stopped to wait on them, but they’re only focused on each other. Luke’s back is to the stone wall, and Ashton’s got his hands braced on Luke’s hips. They’re not doing anything except stare at one another, but Michael still feels like he’s intruding on something extremely private from all the way over here. He has to look away.

“No, it’s nothing like that. I’m fine.”

Calum blinks his eyes at Michael like he doesn’t quite believe him.

“I thought you were starving,” says Michael before Calum can speak again. “Shouldn’t we be going to dinner?”

“There’s going to be roast,” he says, distractedly. He glances over his shoulder at Ashton and Luke. “Mikey, are you sure?”

Michael pastes his best grin on his face as he nods. He doesn’t want Calum to think any less of Luke. He’s not sure Calum really would, either, and he certainly doesn’t want to know if that’s the case. So to divert the conversation even farther, he reaches out and grabs Calum by the wrist. Calum gasps at the contact, eyes flitting down to Michael’s fingers pale against his skin. Michael’s overtly aware that he’s never before reached out for a classmate in this manner, let alone a friend. He feels giddy all over.

“Let’s go to dinner.”

So they do. They catch up with Ashton and Luke, and they make their way to the Great Hall. They walk four strong, Luke on one side and Michael on the other and Calum and Ashton in the middle. It feels right. Other students gawk at them, surprised that the odd Slytherin isn’t alone. Michael starts to feel self-conscious about still holding Calum’s wrist, so he drops it. Calum glances over at him, a frown on his face. He slings his arm around Michael’s shoulder and draws him in close, and that’s that.

In the Great Hall, they make a bee line for the Hufflepuff table, all four of them. They’re just about to sit down when Niall Horan stands up in front of Ashton, separating him the table. Niall glares over at Calum.

“What’re ya doing bringing a Gryffindor to our table on the night before the big match, Hood? Haven’t I taught you better than that? We can’t let Gryffindor’s best beater privy to our pregame shenanigans.”

“You think I’m Gryffindor’s best beater?” asks Ashton, grinning and not at all offended by Niall’s theatrics. He glances over at the Gryffindor table, and he raises his voice. “Hey, Li! Niall thinks I’m your best beater!”

“Oi!” squawks Nick Grimshaw, the seventh year Gryffindor beater. He’s not sitting at his own table but rather right behind them all next to Harry Styles at the Ravenclaw one, and it’s not an unusual set-up at all. “Take that back, Horan!”

Niall bellows out a laugh. Liam Payne, sixth year Gryffindor and captain of the quidditch team, merely shakes his head at their antics. He and Niall are good friends. They’re usually attached at the hip, but they’ve got to uphold their house rivalry until the end of the match. It’s the captainy thing to do, after all.

“Don’t get your knickers in a twist, Grimmy,” says Niall, loudly. “I don’t think either of you are really any good.”

Ashton goes to step around Niall while he’s distracted, but Niall moves with him. He folds his arms across his chest, and he gives Ashton an unimpressed glare. He looks every bit as fierce as when he plays on the field. They’re still sixteen hours out from kick-off.

“Nuh-uh. I’m not kidding, Irwin. Can’t have any of you pesky Gryffindors getting your claws in our psyche.”

“We’re just going to cream you anyway,” says Ashton.

“Away!” demands Niall, pointing in the general direction of the Gryffindor table. “Go sit over there, and, Hood, make sure you get all of their plans for tomorrow’s game.”

Calum laughs as they bow to Niall’s command, and the expression on Niall’s face suggests he wasn’t going on about Calum getting the insider-scoop on Gryffindor’s game plan. Calum drags Michael to the Gryffindor table. They sit down next to Liam. Ashton and Luke join them a minute later to sit on the other side. People give the group of them odd looks again, and Michael thinks it’s only twenty percent because there’s a Hufflepuff quidditch player sitting side-by-side with the Gryffindor captain.

Mostly, everybody’s still gawking at Michael like he doesn’t belong anywhere that isn’t Slytherin House. He feels the weight of their stares, and he tries to ignore them, but it’s hard, especially since Luke’s still glaring daggers at him from across the table. He kind of wants to disappear right here, right now. He shifts uneasily as he loads his plate with the food that he can reach. Under the table, Calum’s knee knocks against his, and Michael thinks it’s an accident until it doesn’t move away. It stays there for the rest of the time. It’s calming in all of the ways nothing else is, and Michael starts to relax. He has to duck his head to hide the small smile on his lips. The butterflies in his stomach have returned with a vengeance.

“So, Payne—”

“We’re not talking quidditch, Hood,” says Liam mildly. The twinkle in his eye belies his amusement. “Eat your roast, and stop doing Niall’s dirty work.”

Calum laughs again. It’s a good sound. He bumps his elbow against Liam's arm. The topic of quidditch doesn’t come up again. Under the table, Calum’s knee is a steady presence, and Michael stops caring about all of the attention they’ve garnered from their nosey classmates. He enjoys his roast, and so does Calum, and life is good.


	4. Chapter 4

The best part about the Slytherin dungeon is the dormitory, or at least the one in which Michael stays. His own bed is a set off from the other ones in the room, and he much prefers it, especially since he has to share sleeping quarters with Finn and Archer. He’s got his bed pushed right up next to the lake. He can see right into it whenever he wants, and the depths of the murky water keep him from feeling so alone. The creatures who call the lake their home like him better than his own peers. They don’t make him feel like an outcast, not like his classmates have done for the past four and a half years.

The even better part about the Slytherin dungeon, however, is the serenity that blankets the place. It’s all cool shades of greens and silvers. It reeks of relaxation and lulls Michael into easy sleeps every night. He doesn’t sleep this well at home in his fluffy bed that his parents spent an exuberant amount of galleons on. There’s just something about falling asleep next to the lake that sets right with Michael.

Which is why he’s the hardest person in the entire world to wake up.

It’s not a problem, usually. He’s only overslept a handful of lectures in his tenure at Hogwarts, and the majority of them were History of Magic, a class he usually sleeps through anyway. He’s never had anybody who wanted to drag him out of bed, so he enjoys a lie-in whenever he can nab one. On Saturdays, he’s not out of bed by noon.

Except this one, apparently.

“Oi! Clifford! Rise and shine!” comes the forsakenly chipper voice of Louis Tomlinson.

“Piss off,” murmurs Michael, but his face is pressed into his pillow, so it comes out sounding more like _p’ssoff_. He doesn’t care, really. He’s enjoying a nice dream where nobody’s mean to him, and he actually has friends, and Calum’s so, so close to kissing him. He just knows he is. If only he could sleep for five more minutes.

“C’mon, mate! It’s Gryffindor versus Hufflepuff in an hour, and you can’t miss cheering on your boyfriend!”

Michael presses his face farther down into his pillow in the hopes that Louis will take his leave, and when there’s no tell-tale rustling of movement, Michael reaches for his wand where he’d left it on the edge of his bed the night before. He flicks his wrist in the general direction of Louis’ voice and sends a burst of magic at him. Louis must duck, because Michael’s magic ricochets off the stone wall of the dorm. The room explodes in a bright green light.

“I told you to wake him up, Tomlinson, not curse him out of bed.”

Michael’s eyes snap open, because that voice sounds oddly like it belongs to Calum. That’s impossible. These are the Slytherin dorms. Nobody outside of the Slytherin House ever ventures into the dungeons, except for that one time a couple of years ago when Nick Grimshaw snuck into the boys’ dorm and hexed Louis’s bed to eject him anytime he tried to go to sleep after Louis had made Harry Styles cry by insulting his scarves. Nick had refused to remove the hex until Louis publically apologized to Harry. Stubborn and a typical Slytherin through and through, Louis had spent a week sleeping in Zayn Malik’s bed to defy Nick until Louis sucked up his pride and proclaimed his apology to the entirety of the Great Hall during dinner one night.

But no. It’s Calum in the flesh right here in Michael’s Slytherin dorm. He’s decked out in Hufflepuff quidditch robes, looking like a bumblebee, though Michael would never tell him that. He’s got his broom thrown over one shoulder, and his chaser gloves tucked underneath his right armpit. He’s not alone either. Ashton and Luke stand on either side of him, both glancing curiously around at the dorm. Ashton is wearing his Gryffindor quidditch robes. Michael has the passing thought of what the Slytherins in the common room must have thought to see Ashton traipse through just a few minutes earlier.

“Nice view of the lake,” says Ashton. He leaves his post at the door and strolls over to the foot of Michael’s bed, careless of anybody else in the room. He presses his face right against the glass and peers into it. One of the grindylows dance by, clearly showing off, and Ashton gasps like a child. He glances over his shoulder. “Luke, c’mere! Look at this!”

“It’s like you’ve never seen the lake before,” mutters Luke.

He’s a sucker for Ashton’s wishes. He joins him at the glass panel, elbowing his way underneath Ashton’s arm. He looks soft in the early morning light and nothing like the wizard who had threatened Michael yesterday outside of the library. Despite his reluctance, Luke “oohs” and “awes” at the creatures swimming by in the lake, and Ashton grins down at him, smug and so obviously gone for him.

Newt the hedgehog decides to make an appearance, nuzzling his way out from the folds of Michael’s Slytherin green duvet. He crawls up on Michael’s pillow, but he gets overly confident about his small footing on the treacherous terrain and nearly topples right off the bed. Michael reaches out to snatch him, but he’s not quick enough. Calum is.

“Who’s this?”

“Newt,” says Michael, and he kind of wants to snatch the hedgehog back, because there are so many people in his dorm right now, and Newt’s tiny presence next to him had been calming. Michael’s never really been comfortable in a large group of people. He tells himself it’s because he’s better satisfied all alone, but the awful truth is that he’s never really had any opportunity to learn how to thrive in a crowd. It’s hard to learn to adapt to a large group of people when nobody wants to be around him in the first place.

He doesn’t snatch Newt out of Calum’s hands, because that would be rude. The hedgehog looks content in Calum’s care, and Calum’s scratching Newt just like Michael does. Calum grins up at him, meeting his eyes, and this is just as comforting as Newt had been.

“Is that the hedgehog you stole from Care of Magical Creatures?” asks Ashton, abandoning the view of the lake long enough to recognize Newt. “Wicked.”

“Never imaged you for a kleptomaniac, Clifford,” says Louis.

The approval is obvious in his voice, and it brings a bright blush to Michael’s cheeks. Michael tries not to feel self-conscious about the fact that this is the nicest any of his housemates have ever really been to him. He’s not interacted with Louis very much. It’s partially because of Michael’s own ostracized status among his peers but also because Louis and Zayn are attached at the hip. They’ve never really bothered to branch out in the Slytherin house, choosing instead to run around in the same crowd that Liam and Niall and, now at least, Harry do. They’re an anomaly. Slytherins don’t generally associate with other houses, and Michael’s found that out firsthand, but there’s something about Louis and Zayn that the other Slytherins haven’t touched. Maybe it’s the fact there were two of them from the very beginning. Or maybe that nobody tells either of them what to do. Or maybe it’s because they weren’t born with the name Clifford and an expectation of what they’d turn out to be.

The cards have been stacked against Michael from the very beginning.

“C’mon, lads, there’s a quidditch match waiting,” says Louis after a beat.

It’s then that Michael realizes Louis isn’t wearing his normal Slytherin green and silver but has rather dawned the colors of Hufflepuff, no doubt in honor of Niall. Michael wonders if there’s a reason Louis is playing favorites, picking Niall over Liam, but it’s not his place to ask. Besides, Louis is already backing out of the dorm, making sure to keep an eye on Michael’s wand still in his grasp. The spell had hit a little too close for comfort earlier.

When Louis leaves, it’s just Michael left alone with Calum, Luke, and Ashton. They’re all dressed for the game. Luke is bundled almost to his ears in preparation for the cold hours ahead of him in the stands. He’s wearing a mismatched set of clothes, a mixture of Gryffindor colors and Hufflepuff colors in an obvious attempt to remain neutral. Michael feels overly underdressed in just his ratty old t-shirt and boxers underneath his duvet.

“Lou’s right,” says Calum. “The game will start soon. Better dress warmly, Mikey.”

“I know a warming spell,” mutters Michael, thinking of the one he’d stumbled across last winter in the middle of the coldest spell of the year. It’d been a life-saver for Care of Magical Creatures and especially for Astronomy. He thinks he remembers the precise movements for it.

He swings his legs over the side of the bed, and he tries not to feel awkward about being mostly naked in the presence of his new friends. Nobody else seems to think it’s odd. Luke’s still enamored with the lake, but Michael thinks that’s just an excuse to focus on something other than him. He’s fine with that, really, and he’d almost rather Ashton and Calum were concentrated elsewhere as well.

The trousers he’d worn yesterday are lying in a pile in the floor beneath his feet. He’s not the most organized person in the world, and he doesn’t care that they’re not exactly clean. They don’t smell bad, which is all that really matters. He taps the trousers with his wand to refreshen them before he slips into them. He’s only got to change his shirt now and to slip into some shoes, and he’ll be ready to go. The advantage of always sleeping in way later than he really should is that he’s trained himself to dress quickly.

“Oh, here,” says Calum suddenly. He sits Newt on Michael’s pillow. He digs into the pocket of his quidditch robes, and he hands Michael the tiny pieces of fabric he produces. He whips out his wand in the same movement, using it to tap on the shrunken clothes. They enlarge right in the palm of Michael’s hand. “We thought you might want some colors to wear today. You know, ‘cause we, er, didn’t think you had any?”

The enlarged articles of clothing turn out to be a Hufflepuff jumper, a Gryffindor scarf, and a hybrid of the two houses beanie that matches the one that’s on top of Luke’s head right now. Michael stares down at them. They’re obviously well-worn already—there’s a tiny hole near one end of the scarf for starters—but they’re the nicest pieces of clothing Michael’s ever held. He has to bite down hard on his bottom lip to keep from reacting in an embarrassing way, like squealing or something.

It’s stupid to get so emotional over something as trivial as clothes—especially since Michael’s got more than enough money to his family name to ever lack any luxury, let alone a necessity—but Michael’s never dawned another house’s colors before. He’s never had a reason to. Nobody’s ever asked him, and here is Calum offering these colors like they’re nothing special. Like Michael is worthy enough to wear them.

“Well, go on, then. Put them on,” urges Ashton. He grins over at Calum. “We’ve got a game to play, after all.”

Michael doesn’t need any more prompting. He shrugs out of his ratty old t-shirt and tries not to feel self-conscious about his naked torso exposed for them all to see. He’s spent the past four and a half years sharing tight quarters with other Slytherins, so he’s used to changing his clothes without any expectation of privacy, but there’s something different about changing in the same room with his fellow Slytherins who don’t care much for him and changing in the same room with Calum, who looks dashingly handsome in his quiddich robes. Michael blushes all the way to his ears. It’s so stupidly obvious on his pale skin, but he hopes the green tint of the light bouncing off the lake makes the red in his cheeks a little less visible.

The jumper doesn’t quite fit. His shoulder stretch out the material in ways it hasn’t been before, and it hangs a little lower than all of his own jumpers do. It’s obvious molded to fit Calum’s body, which is well-toned from quidditch. Michael’s never played quidditch a day in his life. He’s never had anybody to play a game of pick-up quidditch with, and it’s no fun playing all alone, so he’s never bothered. He’s barely been on a broomstick. He doesn’t have the muscle physique Calum does, but Michael’s comfortable in the jumper all the same.

He wraps the scarf around his neck. It smells like a Christmastime fire, like the one that burns in his parents’ house every Christmas Eve that Michael falls asleep in front of alone year after year. He thinks about the latest letter he’s received from his parents, the one telling him not to come home. A wave of sadness washes over him. He won’t be falling asleep in front of the fireplace this year. He won’t even be home for the holidays, and there aren’t any fireplaces in the Slytherin common room.

“You OK?” asks Calum.

Michael’s eyes snap to Calum’s, and he realizes that he’s been standing stock still lost in his own thoughts. He tightens his hold on the beanie, scrunching it up between his fingers until the red and the yellow are almost indistinguishable from each other. Calum’s eyebrows are raised high on his forehead. He’s gazing at Michael like he’s genuinely concerned for the answer, not just asking out of courtesy, so Michael nods.

“Just realized I’m not sure who I’m to root for,” says Michael.

It’s a lie and a truth all wrapped up into one. He doesn’t want to reveal what he was really thinking about. Doesn’t want to remind Calum that his family doesn’t want him home for Christmas, because Michael still gets a flush of red-hot humiliation all over his body whenever he thinks about the look on Calum’s face after he’d read the letter floating in midair. He doesn’t want to remind Calum how pathetic he is that his parents don’t even want him.

But there is truth in Michael’s words, because Calum and Ashton have been so, so nice to him. They’ve gone out of their way to befriend him when nobody else ever has, and Michael can’t repay their kindness. Now, he’s faced with the one dilemma he never thought he’d have. He’s got to choose between two houses for a quidditch game. More than that, he’s got to choose between his two friends.

“Hufflepuff, of course,” says Calum.

“Gryffindor. Always Gryffindor,” says Ashton at the exact same time.

The pseudo-glare they shoot each other suggests they’re well-practiced at answering this question. Maybe it’s because of Luke. Maybe Luke poses this question to them every time they face off in a match or any time he’s got to make the decision Michael’s got to make right now. Michael glances at Luke voluntarily for the first time since they all barged in here. Luke’s still standing by the lake, attention on the water in front of him like Michael’s not even there. It’s Luke’s usual way of dealing with him, Michael’s come to realize. But it’s different this time. Luke’s lips are wavering ever-so-slightly as if he’s trying to bite back a smile of amusement.

It’s too much to think about, really, but, for the first time since Michael’s become friends with Calum and Ashton, he feels like maybe, just _maybe_ he and Luke are on the same page.

“It doesn’t matter too much,” says Calum, breaking first. Michael’s attention snaps back to him, and Calum meets his eyes. “Just scream loudly for whoever scores, and you’ll be good.”

“Yeah, you won’t even have to choose that way,” adds Ashton. There’s a glint of mischief in his eyes. “You’ll never get a chance to cheer for Hufflepuff.”

“Oi!” says Calum, mock-offended.

Ashton bellows out a laugh. It’s loud and boisterous, and it warms the cold that permeates the Slytherin dungeon. It’s so obvious that Ashton doesn’t belong here, but it’s not in the same way Michael doesn’t belong anywhere. Ashton’s too bright for the darkness that clings to every pore of the dungeon. Michael has the urge to bundle him out of the dungeon before it has the chance to consume him, before it has an opportunity to steal away the fire in him.

Michael shoves the beanie on his head, pulling it down to his ears. He’s too lazy to bend down to put on socks, so he uses his wand to magic them on, and he steps into the shoes that are next to his bed. He takes a second to perform the warm spell he’d found in a book in the library. It turns out he does, in fact, remember it. He casts it a second time for Calum and then another time for Ashton and then, because it would be rude not to, a final time for Luke. Calum and Ashton grin at him in thanks, the warmth of the spell rushing over their bodies. Luke doesn’t bother responding, but Michael spies a small smile on Luke’s lips. It’s about as much as he could expect for, so he doesn’t tarry on it too much. He counts it as a victory all the same. He’s not sure why he desires Luke’s approval, especially when Luke so obviously doesn’t like him.

He pushes thoughts of Luke aside as looks expectantly at Calum. Ashton’s turned his attention back to Luke and the glass wall. He’s eager for one last look into the lake. Calum grins at Michael as he throws his arm around Michael’s shoulder, and they lead the way out of the dungeon. They’ve missed breakfast, but that’s all right. Michael’s never hungry right after he wakes up. The others don’t complain either. Perhaps they’ve already eaten. He doesn’t ask, because it doesn’t really matter. The air is icy when they step outside, but Michael’s spell keeps them all warm despite it. They stop near the Gryffindor locker room. The Hufflepuff one is all the way on the other side of the pitch.

“You’ll be all right with Lukey, right?” asks Calum.

He makes it sound like a throwaway comment, but the way he tightens his hand on Michael’s shoulder belies his intention. He’s thinking about yesterday outside of the library when he’d asked Michael about Luke. Michael’s face flushes at the reminder, and he pastes on his best self-assuring smile. He doesn’t want Calum to think any less of Luke, so he doesn’t want to admit that he’s not exactly looking forward to spending the match attached to Luke’s side. He’s not worth causing problems between Calum and Luke who have been friends for a long time. He doesn’t want to get in the middle of their friendship anyway.

“Of course.”

“Luke’ll make sure you get the best seats,” says Ashton, completely oblivious to the tension that hangs over the other three. He places a wet kiss against Luke’s cheek, and Luke makes a face of disgust but doesn’t move away. He sinks farther into Ashton’s side. It’s where he belongs. “Gotta make sure you get a good view of Gryffindor kicking Hufflepuff’s arse.”

Calum rolls his eyes, but he doesn’t bother contradicting Ashton’s claim. It wouldn’t matter even if he wanted to. Liam Payne hollers Ashton’s name from the doorway of the locker room. Ashton goes in to place another sloppy kiss on Luke’s cheek, but Luke turns his head at the wrong time, and their lips meet instead. Michael expects it’s nothing out of the ordinary. With the way the two of them have been all over each other, he figures this is something they always do.

He’s wrong.

Luke and Ashton both freeze at the exact same time, eyes identically wide, obviously caught off-guard by the kiss like this isn’t something they do at all. Michael glances uncertainly over at Calum to gauge his reaction, and Calum’s just as flabbergasted by the turn of events as Luke and Ashton themselves are. Ashton opens his mouth to say something—to apologize, probably, judging by how dark he’s blushing right now—but he’s never given the chance. Liam calls his name again, more urgent this time. Ashton takes one step back from Luke then two, and then he bounds off in the direction of the Gryffindor locker room. He doesn’t look back.

“Luke—”

“Shouldn’t you be heading off to your own locker room, too?” asks Luke sharply. He’s refusing to look at Calum, and he’s refusing to look in the direction Ashton disappeared in, and he’s biting down on his bottom lip like these past few moments are the last thing he ever wants to discuss.

Calum sighs. He looks like he wants to pursue the subject anyway. He opens his mouth, and Luke silences him with a glare. Across the field, Niall’s blond head pokes out the door to the Hufflepuff locker room just like Liam had done from the Gryffindor one a moment ago, and Calum’s out of time. He squeezes Michael’s shoulder once before he lets go.

“Keep an eye on him, OK?” Calum requests, voice too low for Luke to hear.

Michael’s not given a chance to agree before Calum’s gone. Calum stops long enough to throw his arms around Luke in a quick hug, and Luke obliges him a _good luck_ , and then he’s racing off across the pitch. It’s only Luke and Michael left to themselves. Michael entertains the idea of ducking out of the game, of hiding away in the corner of the library with the best view of the pitch and watching the game from there where he’s far away from Luke and from all of the other odd stares he’s already gotten.

He’s sure he must present a strange and unexpected sight. He’s the odd Slytherin who hasn’t ever really had any friends before, and here he is in Hufflepuff and Gryffindor colors. He tucks his hands into the sleeves of Calum’s old jumper. He really, really wants to hide away somewhere far away from all of the attention he’s getting. He thinks of how disappointed Calum would be, and that seals the deal. He musters up all of his strength. He’s about to spend the next however long in the company of Luke, who still doesn’t like him, without any barrier between them. He’s going to need all the strength he can get.

“So where are these infamous seats?”

He sounds more enthusiastic than he feels. Luke jumps in surprise, eyes flitting to meet his for the first time all morning, and it’s like he’d forgotten entirely about Michael’s presence. For a moment, Luke doesn’t respond. Michael almost expects Luke to just brush him off. Now that Calum’s gone, Luke’s got no reason to be nice to him.

“Ravenclaw stands, of course.”

Luke still looks a little shaken, but he tries for a genial smile nonetheless. It slips when he glances toward the Gryffindor locker room. His face clouds over with a conflicted emotion, and Michael kind of wants to ask what just happened between Luke and Ashton. He doesn’t. It’s partially because it’s still not really any of his business. Ashton may have jumped at the idea of being Michael’s friend, but Luke still hasn’t. It’s also because this is the most civil Luke’s ever been to Michael without somebody else around. Michael’s getting a tiny glimpse of who Luke is underneath all of the meanness, and he almost likes what he’s seeing, and he really, really doesn’t want to be hit with another Twitchy-Ears Hex. He’s sure Luke’s gotten even better at it in the past year.

“Lead the way.”

Luke does without argument. He takes Michael up a winding staircase of wooden steps and then through the mess of Gryffindor students crowded in their section until they reach the Ravenclaws. Michael stumbles over the uneven wooden planks, and there’s nothing to reach out for, but Luke’s there in a split second, uprighting him, and he freezes for a second time when Michael’s back on firm footing. Michael freezes as well, because if he tries hard enough right now, he can almost pretend he and Luke are actually friends.

But that’s impossible. Luke drops his wrist like it’s on fire, and his face goes steely in the next second, and Michael keeps his distance from Luke the rest of the way to the highest part of the stands right in the middle of a sea of Ravenclaws who have split their loyalty almost equally between Gryffindor and Hufflepuff.

Harry Styles is the lone Ravenclaw at the top. He’s decked out in Gryffindor red and Hufflepuff yellow, and he’s waving a mismatched flag with Niall’s and Liam’s faces on either side of it. It’s so dorky, but it’s so Harry, and Michael has to grin at his enthusiasm.

“Luke, hey!” greets Harry, high on the energy pulsating in the stadium. He pulls Luke to him in a hug, and he presses his cheek against Luke’s, and a streak of red and gold face paint smears onto Luke’s skin. When he spots Michael hovering awkwardly behind Luke, he all but pushes Luke away from him so that he can hug Michael, too. Michael tense in Harry’s hold initially, unused to anybody wanting this kind of contact with him, even if he’s always known on a general level that Harry thrives off friendly gestures such as this. “I’m glad you’re here, Michael. Calum’s going to play bloody brilliant—but I’m not taking sides, of course. I think Liam’s team will do good, too.”

“They both can’t win, Hazzah,” says Louis. “Niall’s clearly got the better team. Liam can’t pick players for shit.”

“You know, you can pull for Gryffindor without rooting for Nick.”

“Fat chance. I’d rather pull for the Bloody Baron than Grimshaw.”

Harry finally lets go of Michael, and he rolls his eyes fondly at Louis like this is an age-old topic of conversation. Michael takes the chance to fade into the spot between Harry and Luke. It’s the only place left around them. Louis and Zayn have already claimed Harry’s other side. When Harry waves his flag in one big circle, he nearly beams Michael with it. Luke bites back a laugh, and Michael realizes the empty space had been purposeful. He doesn’t care. It’s nice being surrounded by these people who seem to acquiesce to his presence, even if he knows Luke in particular doesn’t really care for him.

The players fly out into the pitch, Gryffindor and then Hufflepuff. Michael’s eyes immediately seek out Calum, and he finds him immediately. He’s two spots back from Niall in the honorary flying position given to the second chaser. Michael’s never seen Calum on a broom, but he looks like a natural. He flies like his feet were never meant to touch the ground. He looks like he’s having the time of his life. The Hufflepuffs make one big loop around the entire stadium, and Michael follows Calum the entire way.

The teams meet in the middle. Madam Hooch calls for the captains. Liam and Niall fly forward, both looking fierce in the face of the game before them. Liam sticks his hand out first, and Niall takes it immediately. For a split second, their masks fall. Niall grins at Liam, and Liam grins back, and for just that brief amount of time, they’re friends. Then Madam Hooch blows her whistle, and they’re back to being opposing captains. Liam zooms to the Gryffindor goal posts. Hufflepuff takes first possession of the quaffle, and the game has begun.

Michael doesn’t really follow the game too much. He knows the basics like a good pureblood is supposed to know, but he’s not watched enough games to truly appreciate everything that’s going on. He tries his best to keep up. He’d be almost totally lost if it weren’t for Alex, the seventh year Ravenclaw, giving the entire stadium the play-by-play.

“There’s Hood with the quaffle. He passes it to Horan. It’s back to Hood—oh! What a hit by Grimshaw with that bludger, but it’s not good enough. Hood’s still got the quaffle. Payne had better watch out. The quaffle goes to Merrick, and it’s back to Hood, and he shoots, and—HE SCORES! It’s Hufflepuff up ten to nothing. It’s still an early game. The snitch is nowhere to be seen!”

The game goes on. Michael follows Calum as much as he can, but he cheers when Gryffindor make the next goal. He remembers to search for Ashton then. It’s easy to spot his blond curls, even from all the way across the pitch. Ashton’s readying to hit a bludger. He’s got both his hands on his bat and his knees carefully braced around his broom, and Michael thinks he would’ve already fallen had it been him who was in Ashton’s position. Ashton’s comfortable, though. He’s graceful when the bludger comes nearer, and he swings his bat, aiming the bludger right at Niall, who loses possession of the quaffle in an effort to avoid it. The chase for the quaffle heads toward the other goal.

Michael’s actually having fun. He’s garnering a new appreciation for the sport of quidditch—not enough to actually want to go and climb on a broomstick but, maybe, like to want to watch more games in the future—and he’s almost forgotten about the chill that’s hanging in the icy air, fighting against the warming spell he’d performed earlier. Everything is so loud, particularly where he is standing, because they’re all, even Louis, supporting both teams in the end.

It’s so good. It’s nice. It’s fun.

Until it isn’t anymore.

Michael almost misses it when it happens. Niall’s got the quaffle again, and it’s just him left to face off against Liam at the goal posts. Ashton’s setting up to intervene with another bludger, and Michael’s attention is completely away from Calum for the first time in at least the last half hour. Adrenaline is pumping through his body. He’s not even playing, and he doesn’t care who wins, but he’s so caught up in the moment.

A flash of light catches his eye in the millisecond before Niall lets go of the quaffle and Ashton’s bat hits the bludger. Michael’s hand is on his wand before he really understands what he’s seeing. The light slams right into Calum, who is hundreds of meters high in the sky, well above the quidditch pitch. Time seems to slow down. Calum’s body twists under the onslaught of the spell, and Michael watches in horror as he starts seizing. He loses control of his broom. He starts to fall, and Michael’s hand goes straight up, and he points his wand right at Calum and bellows the first spell he can think of.

The entire stadium goes quiet. Echoingly silent. The game screeches to a halt. Niall’s quaffle sails unhindered through the goal posts, but nobody’s paying it any attention. Michael’s spell catches Calum’s fall, and it holds back the effects of the curse, but Michael can’t hold it long. Everybody darts on their brooms toward Calum, desperate to save him, and it’s Ashton who gets there first.

Ashton gets Calum onto his broom, and Niall flies over to help support him. Micheal releases his hold on Calum now that they’ve got him, but he doesn’t let up the protective shield he’s got between Calum and the curse. He can’t, not when the spell still badly wants at him. The rest of the quidditch players form a ring around Calum and Ashton. They’re all digging in their pockets for their wands, wary of another attack as they move as one unit down to the ground. Madam Pomfrey and Professor McGonagall rush across the field, eager to get to Calum. Madam Hooch blows her whistle, but it’s mostly an afterthought. Nobody’s thinking much of the game anymore.

“Hey—hey—Professor McGonagall’s got him.”

Michael can do nothing except concentrate on the spell to make keep it fighting off the curse. Luke’s voice sounds far away, and Michael barely registers it. He can’t see Calum anymore, not with all of the bodies blocking his view on the ground, but that doesn’t matter. He has to keep Calum safe.

“Mikey!” says Luke again, more urgent.

Luke grabs Michael’s wrist, pulling his arm down. Michael loses the spell. He feels a flash of anger that’s followed by fear. Calum’s just been attacked. Michael replays the last few minutes over and over and over again in his mind. He tries to raise his wand again, tries to recast the spell, but he’s weakened. Luke’s still holding onto his wrist in a death grip. Michael glares down at Luke’s hand. It’s all Luke’s fault he lost the spell in the first place. It’s all Luke’s fault. He feels tears welling up in his eyes. He doesn’t want to cry—not in front of Luke—but he can’t stop seeing Calum get hit by the curse.

Luke pulls Michael in for a hug, and it’s so unexpected that Michael hiccups in surprise. He tenses, because this isn’t something that’s supposed to happen. Luke hates him. He thinks Michael’s nothing but a dirty Slytherin. He’s been so, so mean to him. Michael doesn’t understand what’s going on at all.

“Professor McGonagall’s got him, Mikey. He’s in good hands,” murmurs Luke, and his voice is soft like it is when he talks to Ashton and to Calum, and that’s even more surprising than the hug itself. “You saved him.”

That’s all it takes for Michael to melt into the hug. He collapses against Luke, and Luke staggers underneath the sudden weight, but he braces Michael without complaint. Michael doesn’t feel so much like crying anymore, not when Luke’s arms are comforting. He glances down at the field over Luke’s shoulder. He can’t still see Calum, but he’s spotted Ashton, and Ashton’s staring straight at him. It’s hard to see Ashton’s expression from all the way up here. It doesn’t matter though. Between Luke’s arms around him and Ashton staring up at them from down there, Michael finally lets go of the breath he’d been holding this entire time.


	5. Chapter 5

Calum’s pale against the stark white hospital sheets. He lays unmoving, barely breathing. If it weren’t for the death grip Michael’s got on Calum’s hand, he wouldn’t even know the Hufflepuff wasn’t dead. Michael’s taken his vigil on one side of Calum’s bed, and Luke’s next to him, and Ashton’s on the other side. Madam Pomfrey hasn’t even tried to run them off. They’ve been there for hours already. Outside, night fell a while ago around the time the house elves brought dinner up for them. Nobody had been much in the mood to eat, and the food is still setting on the table at the foot of Calum’s bed.

They’re all still dressed for the quidditch match, having spread their outerwear across the bed behind Michael. Ashton’s still wearing in his quidditch robes, but he’s lost his gloves. His hands tremble around Calum’s other wrist. They’re all desperate for touch, for contact that assures them what Madam Pomfrey’s already told them: Calum’s sleeping off the curse. He’ll wake when his body’s ready to return to the land of the living. It shouldn’t be too long now, or so they hope.

The quidditch match is almost a distant memory by now. The attack on Calum had prompted a brief respite of game play while the professors set up barriers around the pitch to ward off any more curses, fearful that it may not have been an isolated incident. Neither Michael nor Luke nor even Ashton stayed behind for the rest of the game. They were all too anxious about Calum to care about something as trivial as quidditch.

Professor McGonagall had helped to get Calum to the infirmary, and she’d stayed behind long enough to badger Michael with questions he hadn’t known how to answer. He didn’t see who had cast the spell that he’d blocked. He didn’t know that Calum was going to get attacked. All he’d known was that Calum was hurt and he had to do something about it. He’d been trembling all over while he was interrogated, glancing nervously down the hospital wing where Madam Pomfrey was doing some complex wand work over Calum’s prone body. The answers he managed to give were apparently satisfactory enough for Professor McGonagall. She’d awarded him fifty points for saving Calum and inter-house cooperation before she’d swept from the room, probably to continue her investigation elsewhere with somebody who could pay attention to her instead of the patient on the other side of the room.

Niall and Liam had stopped by later after the conclusion of the match. Calum was still sleeping, of course, but both captains were concerned about him. Unlike Michael, Calum was well-liked by his peers, so he and Liam had always been on good terms, even being quidditch rivals. Beyond that, Calum’d become Niall’s protégé from the moment he made the team as a second year, and he was obviously the next in line for captainship when Niall graduated next year. Both Niall and Liam looked shaken in the aftermath of Calum’s attack, and the fact that Calum still hadn’t woken was worrisome. They didn’t tarry long. There wasn’t much to do at Calum’s bedside except wait for him to wake up, and it was already crowded, so Niall and Liam gave their well-wishes before leaving, promising to return for another visit.

“I should have been watching him closer,” says Ashton.

It’s the first thing any of them have said since Liam and Niall left a while ago. His voice is soft and anguished. He’s wringing his hands around Calum’s wrist. Michael wants to reach across Calum to make him stop, but he doesn’t move. He’s not much better himself. He’s been chewing on his cuticles for the past hour.

“It wasn’t your fault,” says Luke, equally soft. He’s not looking at Ashton. He hasn’t even glanced in the Gryffindor’s direction in the entire time they’ve held their vigil next to Calum’s bed. “You couldn’t have known some wanker was going to get a shot off at him.”

“No, but Cal’s my friend. He’s—”

“All of our friend,” snaps Luke. He finally looks at Ashton. His gaze is fiery, and his cheeks are pink. He looks at Ashton like he’s looking directly into the sun, his eyes crinkled around the corners. No doubt he’s trying not to think about the kiss they’d accidentally shared just before the game, and he’s failing epically at it. “Michael caught it in time, and he saved Calum. That’s all that matters, so stop blaming yourself for something that’s out of your control.”

Ashton sighs, shoulders slouching. He accepts Luke’s words as truth. They are, of course. There was nothing Ashton could have conceivably done to prevent the attack on Calum. Nobody could have. But Michael suspects Ashton has an ulterior motive for not arguing with Luke. It’s kind of hard to disagree with Luke when Ashton looks at him like he’s the only thing that really matters in the entire world.

“He’s going to wake up, Ash,” adds Luke after a moment of silence. His voice is meeker this time, and he falters over his own words like he doesn’t quite believe them. Like he thinks that if they’re spoken out loud between them they’ll have to come true. “He’s just sleeping.”

He reaches across Calum for Ashton’s hands, and he takes them into his own, and they hold each other from each side of the bed. It’s so intimate that Michael feels like he’s intruding. He shuffles away from them ever-so-slightly, because he’s the one who doesn’t belong. He barely saved Calum from falling. Calum’s his friend, yes, and Ashton says he is, too, and Luke hugged him after Calum was safely on the ground just hours ago, but Michael still can’t help but to feel like he’s an outsider looking in. Like he shouldn’t be here holding vigil at Calum’s bedside, sitting in the chair of honor right next to him like they’ve been best friends for years, not just friends for a few days.

Calum’s safe between Luke and Ashton. He always has been, and it’s so obvious now, his prone body beneath their clasped hands, that Michael feels a little foolish to have ever let himself hope to measure up to either Luke or Ashton in Calum’s eyes. There’s no way Michael can compete with them. Even worse, there’s no way he can fit in with them.

Michael’s so lost to his thoughts that he jumps when there’s a hand placed on his own. He looks down at it and trails his gaze up the arm to the owner, hardly able to believe that it’s Luke who’s reached out for him. He feels a flash of confusion. Dread builds up in his chest. Luke’s going to ask him to leave. There’s no other reason for the Ravenclaw to voluntarily reach out to him.

But that’s not what happens at all. Luke turns Michael’s slack hand over so that he can thread his fingers in the spaces between Michael’s, and Michael stares back down at their hands, but he doesn’t believe what he’s seeing. He’s vaguely aware of Ashton reaching across the bed for his other hand. Together, the three of them are linked, and Michael wonders if either Luke or Ashton can read his mind. If they’re feeling sorry for him feeling sorry himself that they’ve had to give him this.

Nobody’s ever wanted to hold Michael’s hand before, aside from Calum. He doesn’t understand why Ashton or especially Luke would want to now. He doesn’t voice his thoughts. He just clings to Luke’s and Ashton’s hands and pretends like he really does belong here. Like he’s got just as much right as they do to hold this vigil.

Calum doesn’t wake up.

Eventually, the evening hour is too late for Madam Pomfrey to allow them to remain in the hospital wing. Michael’s butt has gone numb from the hard seat of his chair. He lost feeling of his fingers a long time ago, but he’s kept his hold tight on Ashton’s and Luke’s hands. They’re gripping his equally as firm. He wonders if they’re as scared as he is to let go.

They barely release each other as they’re ushered out of the infirmary. Michael clings to Luke’s hand, the only one he’s still holding, as he walks on unsteady legs to the door. He wants to argue for them to stay. Wants to tell Madam Pomfrey that Calum shouldn’t wake up alone. That they should be here. He keeps his mouth shut. He knows it’ll do no good, but, even more so than that, he’s terrified what she might have to say about Calum not being awake yet if she were properly provoked.

Outside in the corridor, they really need to separate. Michael’s down in the dungeons, but the other two are up in the towers. They stop before a suit of armor at the intersection to the routes to their common rooms, and they don’t go a step farther.

“I don’t want to be alone tonight,” admits Ashton. Michael hasn’t known him very long, but he’s discovered over the past few days how much the Gryffindor wears his heart on his sleeve. Ashton’s completely unabashed in his admission like he always is.

“Me neither,” agrees Luke.

Michael wants to agree, too, but it’s not his place. He’s destined to return to the Slytherin dungeon all alone. If there’s one lesson he learned as tiny first year desperate for any friendship, it’s that nobody really wants to invite the odd Slytherin anywhere. Calum had been the exception, but Calum’s not here now. Michael can’t very well trespass on Luke and Ashton’s time together. Their best friend is lying unconscious on the hospital bed, and they can’t see him now, and they need each other’s companionship. They don’t need Michael stomping all over it.

“C’mon. Let’s head up to my dorm. I don’t feel like spending twenty minutes talking to a doorknocker.”

“I even gave you the answer last time,” grumbles Luke, but there’s a grin on his face that belies his excitement to spend the night in the Gryffindor tower. “It’s not like it was that difficult of a riddle anyway, not like the one that had Harry and me stumped for like half of an hour the other day.”

The pair start walking off in the direction of the Gryffindor tower, and since Luke’s still got a hold of Michael’s hand, he pulls him along as well. Michael stumbles after them until he regains his footing. Then he stops, prompting the others to as well.

“Is there something you need to get from your dorm?” asks Ashton kindly, completely misunderstanding Michael’s reason for stopping them. “Or would you rather us crash down there instead?”

“What?”

There’s really no other response to Ashton’s question, and Michael lets it fall unfiltered from his mouth. He doesn’t understand what’s going on at all. He feels stupid, because Luke and Ashton are both looking at him like he’s grown a second head or maybe like he’s accidentally swallowed one of the sweets from Weasley Wizard Wheezes’ that cause boils to appear all over his face.

“I mean, I don’t fancy kipping with the snakes, but I reckon a Gryffindor’s got to have enough courage if his Slytherin friend asks him to,” says Ashton. “Gotta admit. It’d be bloody brilliant sleeping next to the lake…”

“You were including me?” asks Michael. He already looks like an idiot in front of Ashton and Luke, and his cheeks are flaming red, so he might as well embarrass himself more while he’s at it. Get it all out of the way.

Ashton blinks at him, totally stunned, like the idea of not including Michael had never crossed his mind. He glances over at Luke, who is just as surprised. Michael fidgets before them. Nobody ever wants his company, so he’s caught off guard at the idea that Ashton and Luke do now. He wishes he’d never said anything, that he’d just quietly slipped out of Luke’s hold a few minutes earlier and escaped down to his dorm. He’s not sure he can blush any darker.

“Those Slytherins really did do a number on you,” says Ashton sadly.

He shakes his curls out of his eyes. The firelight catches them just right, and Michael thinks he might spy tears welling up in them. He wants to tell Ashton that it’s all right. That he shouldn’t get emotional over something as insignificant as Michael not being liked by his classmates, because Michael himself should be used to it by now.

“You’ll love the Gryffindor common room,” says Luke, eager to change the subject. He tightens his hand on Michael’s, as if afraid that Michael might slip out of it. Michael doesn’t want to look close enough to see if Luke’s as affected as Ashton is. He doesn’t have to. He can hear it in the Ravenclaw’s voice, how it quivers over the words.

This is the strangest of all, Luke caring about Michael. It’s even more bizarre than Luke hugging him in the heat of the moment at the quidditch match when Calum was safely on the ground. Michael likes this side of Luke, the side that doesn’t go out of his way to make Michael’s life hell but rather to include him. He gleams for the first time just how all-or-nothing Luke is and how fiercely loyal he can be to his friends.

Michael really doesn’t want to be alone right now, and Luke wants his company, too, and so does Ashton. He nods his head in acquiescence before allowing Luke to pull him along. They lead him up staircases he’s never ventured upon all the way to Gryffindor tower. He can’t stop looking at everything, so amazed by the new area of the castle he’s never been welcomed in. He’s not watching where he’s walking, trusts that he’s safe in Luke’s hands. Luke guides him well until they stop suddenly on the seventh floor, and Michael nearly topples over. Luke easily rights him, chuckling kindly at him. He blushes a dark pink again and pointedly looks away from the Ravenclaw. It’s then that he meets the infamous portrait of the Fat Lady for the first time.

“Oi, have you another one?” asks the Fat Lady, eyeing Michael with criticism that a portrait really shouldn’t be capable of. “I believe you’ve missed your after party. It seems your classmates aren’t as rambunctious as usual after such a victory. How is young Mister Hood?”

“Sleeping,” answers Ashton politely before he gives the password.

The Fat Lady doesn’t open the door immediately. She’s still looking Michael up and down like she’s never before seen a Slytherin grace her threshold. He knows that’s untrue. Louis and Zayn are too good of friends with Liam to have never ventured into the Gryffindor house at some point during their six year tenure at Hogwarts. Even if Louis hasn’t visited the common room on behalf of Liam, he’s certainly been inside that one time last year to switch out Nick Grimshaw’s shampoo with green hair dye. Michael’s definitely not the first Slytherin the Fat Lady’s come across.

“You’re the Clifford boy, aren’t you?” prompts the Fat Lady. She doesn’t wait for an answer. The alarmed expression on Michael’s face is enough of a confirmation. “Word is you were pretty handy with a wand, saving Hood like you did. Aye. I’d shake your hand if I could.”

Michael fidgets awkwardly under her gaze. He glances toward Ashton, because he’s not sure what he’s supposed to say in response. It’s weird to be complimented by a portrait. He’s so glad that the entrance to the Slytherin dungeon is nothing more than a stone wall. He doesn’t think he’d be comfortable talking to a painting every time he needed to go into his common room.

Ashton smiles kindly at him, and he gives the Fat Lady the password once again. The portrait swings out this time to reveal the entrance to the Gryffindor common room. Ashton steps inside first then Luke then Michael, because they’re all still holding each other’s hands like they’re scared first years navigating the castle for the very first time.

Michael’s read _Hogwarts, A History_ , and he’s read books about the great Harry Potter that have detailed the Gryffindor common room, but nothing could really prepare him for the magnificence of it. Where the Slytherin dungeon is grand with an air of aristocracy that makes one feel important by just being there, the Gryffindor common room is homey with squashy armchairs and a big fireplace that rivals the one at Michael’s parents’ that he likes to curl up in front of every Christmas Eve.

It’s obvious there’s been a victory party tonight. Gryffindor had, after all, beaten Hufflepuff with a score of one-hundred ninety to seventy. According to Liam and Niall, at least, there wasn’t much of a game after Calum’s attack. The Gryffindor Seeker had only ended the match by chance when the Snitch flew right up to her. But any victory is worthy of a celebration, even in light of the events of the game. The Gryffindors certainly know how to party, even if the room is mostly cleared of students at this hour in the night.

The Gryffindors call out greetings to Ashton and to Luke, and they ask after Calum. Ashton fields their questions with ease, but there’s a tightness about his jaw that belies his worry. He’s still got a firm hold on Luke, so he uses that to drag the other two through the common room to the staircase up to the boys’ dorm. All eyes in the room are on Michael, and he can feel the weight of him. He keeps his head down. He’s all too used to this kind of attention. It never really ends up good for him.

They make it to the door to the boys’ dorm before they’re stopped. It’s Liam who steps in front of Ashton. He’s obviously had a couple of butterbeers, judging by the pink tint to his cheeks and the slight glassiness of his eyes, but he’s not drunk. He reaches around Ashton and Luke for Michael, and Michael freezes, tense as Liam jerks him out of Luke’s hand.

Horror builds up in Michael’s chest. His wand is trapped in his pocket between him and Liam, and he can’t get to it. He’s always thought highly of Liam. Never believed the Gryffindor would ever be mean to anybody, but here he is, presenting Michael to the other students. Michael tries to pull away, but Liam’s stronger.

“The man of the hour!” he bellows, loud in Michael’s ear.

Michael looks sharply over at him, confused. Liam’s grinning. The horror starts to loosen in his chest. Confusion begins to settle in. Liam shoves a mug of butterbeer into Michael’s hand and motions for Luke and Ashton to get one for themselves. He raises his own mug, the liquid inside already half gone. The entire common room is silent for him.

“Michael Clifford, everybody! He singlehandedly saved Calum out there on the field. I know I speak on behalf of all of us out there today when I say I’m bloody glad he was watching, and I’m even more thankful that he knows what he’s doing with his wand. Let’s give it up for Michael!”

The Gryffindor common room erupts in cheers. Michael blushes straight to his ears. He tries to curl into Liam’s side, but he’s grinning. The day’s been downright awful, and Calum still hasn’t woken up, but Michael thinks this might be the greatest night of his life. He’s never before been cheered on by his classmates. He’s barely been treated nicely by them, even the Gryffindors who are yelling and hollering on his behalf now.

Liam shoves him away, laughing good-naturedly. Michael soaks up the moment. He knocks his mug of butterbeer against Liam’s and then against Ashton’s and Luke’s, and all the while in the background, the Gryffindors cheer his name. He throws back his butterbeer. He doesn’t listen to the little voice in the back of his mind saying _you don’t deserve this. You’re still just a dirty Slytherin, and you couldn’t save Calum in the end, not really._

Later, when all of the butterbeer is gone, and the Gryffindors have cheered his name one last time, Michael follows Ashton and Luke up the steps to the fifth year boys’ dorm. He’s exhausted, bone-dead tired and worried still about Calum. The curtains are drawn around the other beds in the room. Ashton’s stands alone empty next to the window that has a beautiful view of the grounds of Hogwarts. For as much as Ashton had gushed about Michael’s lake-bottom view, this one right here rivals it, even in the pitch blackness of the night.

Ashton drags spare t-shirts out of his trunk for Luke and Michael. Luke claims the one he wants and hands the other to Michael, who begins to carefully strip out of all of the clothes he’s wearing. None of them had ever changed out of their quidditch apparel. Even now, traces of Michaels’ warming spell still linger. The t-shirt is too big on Michael, but like with Calum’s jumper, he doesn’t think he owns anything that is more comfortable. He tries not to get too emotional again. He focuses instead on the logo on the front, curious.

“It’s a muggle band,” says Ashton, reading the intrigue on Michael’s face. “I’m muggleborn, you know. The first one in my family to go to Hogwarts.”

There’s a note of pride in Ashton’s voice. Michael’s never really had any dealings with muggles before. His family was once notoriously anti-muggle, even, but they’re not so anymore, not after the conclusion of the Second Wizarding War. Michael’s too young to really remember the time of pureblood supremacy, but he’s heard the stories from his parents of the good old days. He doesn’t quite buy the fanaticism his parents still secretly hold. It’s kind of hard to believe the worst in muggles when somebody as bright and wonderful as Ashton comes from them.

Michael vaguely wonders what his parents would have to say about this. About Michael befriending a muggleborn.

He finds he doesn’t really care all that much, not as long as he finally has friends who care about him.

Luke’s the first to crawl into bed. He’s halfway asleep by the time his head hits Ashton’s pillow. Michael looks down at the bed doubtfully. He has trouble fitting in his identical green and silver one several floors below him. There’s no way three teenaged boys can fit into Ashton’s now, not without a few adjustments. Michael whips out his wand. He looks up at Ashton.

“D’you mind?”

“Not at all. That’s usually Cal’s area of expertise, if I’m being honest. It’s better not to trust Lukey and me with charm works. Once, Luke meant to charm Cal’s shoes to sing every time he walked as kind of a joke, but something went terribly wrong. It turned them this horrible shade of purple and made them shoot out some sort of pus whenever Cal took a step.”

“Oi! It was your idea,” says Luke, but the effect of his indignation is lost to the pillow he’s got his faced buried into.

Ashton smiles fondly down at him. Michael taps his wand against the bed in a precise manner, the incantation loud in his mind, and the bed grows before him with Luke still on it. Michael is weakened from the amount of magic he’d used to save Calum earlier, so his spell is similarly weaker than it should have been. The end result is just enough room for them all to fit without fear of falling off now, though, and that’s all that really matters.

Michael’s not sure which side of Luke he should sleep on. He’s never really slept over with his friends, let alone shared a bed, so he doesn’t know the protocol. He looks helplessly at Ashton, feeling stupid for being so ignorant. Ashton just flashes him a grin as he ushers Michael into the bed. He crawls in on the other side of Michael, efficiently sandwiching Michael in between them. Michael likes it too much to offer to take one of the sides. It feels so selfish to indulge himself, but there’s something comforting about having Luke and Ashton—about having these people who want to be friends with him—on either side of him.

“Goodnight, Mikey. Goodnight, Lukey,” mumbles Ashton, losing the fight against sleep. Then, probably out of habit, he adds, “Goodnight, Cal.”

Luke echoes Ashton and so does Michael. The other two fall asleep pretty easily, but Michael can’t. Up here away from Calum, his mind runs wild. He sees Calum falling through the air again and again on loop. He thinks about Calum still unconscious in the hospital wing. His brain won’t rest. He can’t help but to feel like he could have done more to save him. That he should’ve used the other spell on his mind, the one that would have directed the curse at him instead. That it should be Calum right here where he is now in between Luke and Ashton and not him.

Next to him, Luke shifts in his sleep and turns over to face Michael. He throws his arm around Michael’s waist, and he buries his face into the crook of Michael’s neck as if he senses the direction in which Michael’s thoughts had gone. Michael hesitantly wraps his arm around Luke, unsure if he should. He’s rewarded with a sleepy hum of contentment. Michael smiles. His mind starts to settle.

He leans against Ashton, dragging Luke with him, because it doesn’t feel right leaving Ashton out. Ashton curls his arm around Michael’s shoulder. Michael thinks he’s already asleep, but he’s not.

“Go t’ sleep, Mikey. Cal’ll wake up in th’ morning.”

Ashton leans over and presses a soft kiss against Michael’s forehead. Michael tenses. Luke grumbles in his sleep, patting Michael’s chest until the tension leaves his body. Nobody’s ever kissed Michael like Ashton just has, like an older brother comforting a younger sibling. It’s nothing like the kiss Luke and Ashton had shared earlier that day, but there’s a layer of familial intimacy that Michael relishes in. It’s this that calms his nerves. That soothes his mind. He falls asleep cuddled against Luke and pressed flush against Ashton, surrounded by his friends for the first time in his entire life.

He only wishes Calum were here, too.


	6. Chapter 6

Ashton’s wrong. Calum doesn’t wake up the next morning. He doesn’t wake up the day after that, either.

Calum’s parents make a visit to Hogwarts on the third day Calum doesn’t wake. They speak with Professor McGonagall in her office then with Madam Pomfrey in the hospital wing as Calum’s mother cries all over him. Luke and Ashton are there, too, but Michael makes his excuses to be elsewhere. Calum’s his friend, yes, and Michael vaguely remembers Calum’s parents, namely his father, helping Michael load his trunk onto the Hogwarts Express four years ago when not even Michael’s own father could bother to do so himself, too busy catching up with friends from the good old days. Nonetheless, Michael can’t bring himself to intrude on such a private time.

Selfishly, he doesn’t want to know if they decide to transfer Calum to St. Mungo’s until it’s too late, and he doesn’t have to cry in front of his new found friends and Calum’s family. He really, really wants Calum’s parents to like him. Sure, he likes to be liked, though not many people do, in fact, like him, but Calum’s parents are a special case. They were so nice to him when he was younger, but he is the one who cut ties with Calum. He is a Clifford, after all, and everybody knows the darkness that lurks in the Clifford family. Michael doesn't want to face Calum's parents after four and a half years and have them take one look at him and say that he's not good enough for Calum. Michael already knows he isn’t. He just doesn’t want them to believe so, too. Not when they used to think so favorably of him.

So, yes, it’s better he doesn’t meet them.

When they visit, Michael makes sure to hide himself away in the far corner of the library. It’s the longest he’s been away from Calum during a time when he could be sitting with him, and he’s fidgety the entire time. He can’t concentrate on his homework. He doesn’t have the attention span to practice the transfer spell Ashton taught him the first morning they’d sat by Calum’s side. He does nothing except stare out the window toward the quidditch pitch and try not to think about how terrifying it had been to see Calum cursed mid-air.

Michael’s been by Calum’s bedside every possible moment since the very beginning. He makes it a habit to wake up extremely early, even when he doesn’t have Charms until ten in the morning, just so that he can sit with Calum. He does his homework in the hospital wing, too, using Calum’s bed as a makeshift desk so that he can write out his Transfiguration essay. Luke and Ashton spend a lot of time in the infirmary, too. Michael’s free more often than Ashton, who has quidditch practice in the evenings, so often times it’s Luke and him on opposite sides of Calum’s bed, using the empty space between Calum’s feet and the end of the bed to set up a game of wizard’s chess. Michael’s never really had anybody to play chess with it, so he’s not that good, but Luke let him win the first couple of games nonetheless.

“I knew it was all a ruse.”

Fear grips at Michael’s chest, and he glances up at the entryway to his tiny corner to find his worst nightmare. Finn and Archer are standing side-by-side, blocking the exit. Michael thinks of the last time he had a good run-in with them, when he’d turned them into slugs because they tried to hurt Calum. They look even unhappier with him now than they did then. He supposes it’s only to be expected, given that they’d spent several days after they’d been released from the hospital wing oozing slime.

“Yeah, there’s no way anybody’d want to be friends with Clifford,” agrees Archer, on the same page as Finn. He sneers at Michael. “What’d you do to them, anyway? Confound them? Or did _Daddy_ teach you the tricks to the Imperius Curse?”

“That can’t be it,” says Finn. He doesn’t give Michael a chance to answer. It’s like they’ve practiced this dance between them, and Michael’s their puppet. “Daddy Clifford doesn’t want him home, remember?”

Michael flinches, slouching farther back in his seat. His cheeks burn in humiliation. He hates that they read the letter. Hates that it’s one more thing they can hold over his head. It’s not like they didn’t already have thousands of reasons to be mean to him already.

“Are you not so brave without that no good Hufflepuff around?” taunts Finn after a beat.

He walks bravely farther into the cramped corner. Archer matches his step. They move like one cohesive unit, both drawing their wands in mirrored motions. Michael knows from experience what’s to follow. He jumps up from his seat and pulls out his own wand. He doesn’t want to use it. He’s been all off-whack since he’d saved Calum from the curse at the quidditch match, weakened and wobbly. He wraps the shoulder strap to his bookbag around his wrist and tugs it off the table. If he’s quick enough, he might be able to slip between Archer and the shelves of abandoned books.

He’s not.

Finn flicks his wand, and a burst of magic slams Michael against the stone wall between the windows overlooking the quidditch pitch. It holds him there. Finn’s gotten better at this spell since he learned it in the last few months of their first year, and he doesn’t even have to concentrate all his magic on it to keep it up anymore.

“Where are your friends now?” he asks meanly. “Oh, wait—I should have asked earlier. How inconsiderate of me. Tell me. How’s Hood doing? Is he still… _sleeping_?”

It’s in the delivery of the last word. The way his voice lowers an octave. The way his lips curl into a smirk. Michael’s stomach drops all the way to the ground. He’s still held hostage by the Finn’s spell, but he’s not stunned. He fights against the magic pressing him into the wall. It gets him nowhere. All the while, horrible realization churns in the pit of his stomach.

“It was you lot all along,” says Michael, barely a whisper. He feels a thousand kilometers away from this moment in time. He’s back at the quidditch match, absorbed in the excitement of the game. Terrified by the image of the curse striking Calum, bright and unyielding. He hadn’t bothered then with who might have cast it, hadn’t cared about anything beyond saving Calum’s life, but now it’s so obvious what he should have known the entire time.

“Warned you about branching out,” says Archer, not admitting to anything, but the glint in his eyes as he take a step in front of Finn. He spends so much time in the background, always second to Finn, that it’s eerie to see him front and center. Archer’s not like Finn. Attention doesn’t readily come to him. Neither does prestige among the students, but he’s learned well from Finn over the years he’s spent as the wizard’s right-hand man. “But you didn’t listen.”

“Guess you’ll listen now,” adds Finn. He shifts the focus of the room back on him, and it’s a dramatic claim of power that’s noticeable even with just the three of them. The expression on his face darkens. Michael’s known Finn since their very first night at Hogwarts, and Finn’s never looked as dangerous as he does now. “Or there are two more we can work through.”

The air rushes out of Michael’s lungs, and if not for the spell holding him firm, he might have stumbled over his own feet. He can’t catch his breath. His mind runs wild. He sees that awful moment in the quidditch match again, only this time it’s Ashton taking the hit, falling hundreds of meters to the ground. It’s Luke, consumed by the bright light, his body twisting against the onslaught.

Michael can’t take the images, the idea of Ashton and Luke being the next people harmed because of him. He cries out. He can’t reach for his wand, confined as he is, but he doesn’t need it to rip through the void of the castle’s magic. The wall behind his back gives way, and Finn’s spell pushes him straight through it to the other side. Michael hits the stone floor hard, disoriented and still wrought with the fiery ache in his heart: he’s the reason Calum was attacked.

It’s entirely his fault that Calum’s been wasting away in the infirmary, nearly dead to the world.

“Michael—what the bloody hell?” demands Ashton, appearing seemingly out of nowhere above him. Ashton looks funny upside down. The ever-present grin is missing from his face. In its place is worry that Michael’s only ever seen during the long hours they’ve spent waiting on Calum to wake up in the hospital wing. “What are you doing on the floor?”

Michael glances toward the void, but it’s nothing more than an almost indiscernible tear now. It’s nothing Finn and Archer can use to follow him, even if they knew how to manipulate the castle’s magic like Michael learned to do in his second year of Hogwarts when he’d finally stumbled across a book tucked behind massive volumes in a rarely-used section of the library that spoke all about the constructs of magic and how war-torn areas are prone to gaps. Michael knows that’s why the ground shifted beneath the quidditch stadium a month ago, right before the season was due to begin. It’s been years since the Final Battle that had been waged on the grounds of Hogwarts, but it’ll take even longer to repair the castle’s magic to the nearly-impenetrable grandeur it once held.

Ashton follows his line of sight. It takes him a moment to truly process what his eyes are seeing, or maybe just to focus on the right part of the castle wall to spy the inconsistency in the scene before him. When he finally spots it, he gasps. He turns his impressed gaze to Michael.

“I thought that was a rumor. You have to teach me that, mate. D’you know how many _stairs_ I’ve got to go down to get to the Great Hall all the way from the common room?”

Michael thinks about the night he spent up in Gryffindor tower when neither he nor Ashton nor Luke could bear the idea to be alone. It’d been a pretty long walk to and from the infirmary, so he imagines it’s a similar case to the Great Hall. It’s so typical of Ashton to default to an innocent use of the voids. Ashton’s never had to learn the trick to avoid the classmates who didn’t like him. Everybody likes Ashton.

Finn’s threat is loud in Michael’s memory, and Michael swears to himself that he’ll never let anything happen to Ashton or to Luke or to Calum again. He doesn’t know how he’s going to keep his vow. The very thing Finn doesn’t like is the only thing that Michael’s got going for him. That Michael’s ever had going for him. He doesn’t want to let his friendship with Ashton, Luke and Calum go. He doesn’t want to go back to being alone.

But he doesn’t want his friends to be hurt because of him, either.

“What are _you_ doing here?” asks Michael after a beat when he finally gets control of his wayward thoughts.

The promised he’d just made to himself sets heavy on his heart. He considers for a split second, in the face of Ashton’s friendly expression, to confide in Ashton what he’s just learned about Finn and Archer and Calum’s attack. He can do that now, apparently, since he and Ashton are actually friends. But something stops Michael. He knows this is going to blow up in his face just like every other good thing in his life has—like when he lived up to his family name and got sorted into Slytherin only to be ostracized by his housemates, like when he finally got friends only to get them hurt on behalf of him. When it does crash and burn right before him, he’ll be left to pick up the pieces of his life all by himself, because nobody wants to be friends with someone as undesirable as him. Not Calum. Not Ashton. And certainly not Luke.

“Oh—Cal’s awake,” says Ashton, bright and cheery in a way that he hasn’t been since the quidditch match. His grin is livelier, too. “He’s asking for you. Wanted to know why the great Mikey wasn’t fawning at his bedside.”

Michael’s breath catches in his throat. He can’t breathe now for a totally different reason. Calum’s awake. He’s finally awake, and Michael’s missed it, because he was too afraid to face the rejection of Calum’s family. He’d wasted all of that time in the library when he could have been in the infirmary with the others the moment Calum woke. He’s such an awful friend.

His devastation must show on his face, because Ashton’s quick to add, “He’s only just opened his eyes, really. Madam Pomfrey kicked me out, so she could examine him. He’s been asleep for so long, you know. She’s got to run some tests to make sure he’s all right now and not liable to, like, fall back out of consciousness. Totally routine—or so she told me as she brandished her wand toward the door. All but literally magicked me out, honestly.”

Ashton goes for a laugh to follow up. It’s a little shaky, like he feels guilty for the way Michael had reacted earlier. Michael feels like a git. He doesn’t like the note of uncertainty in Ashton’s laughter, so he forces himself to join in. He sounds just as strained. Ashton fades into a smile, and it makes Michael’s effort worth it.

“Cal’s parents have been gone for a little while, and Lukey missed it, too,” Ashton says. “He’s got Arithmancy, now, so he’s got to go get the notes for Calum. I was heading to find the both of you. Poked my head in the library, but I must have just missed you. Understand why now. Doesn’t matter though. Let’s go get Luke.”

Michael’s still lying on the floor, has been for the duration of the conversation. It hadn’t occurred to him that he should maybe stand until right now when Ashton holds out his hand to help him up. Michael blushes all the way to the tips of his ears. He’s just reminded Ashton how pathetic he really is. He takes Ashton’s help all the same. He gets a head-rush as he gets to his feet. He wobbles uncertainly, but Ashton’s there to right him again. Michael shoulders his book bag.

They go to collect Luke from Arithmancy. The classroom isn’t too far away from where Michael fell through the void. When they arrive at the door, Ashton strolls inside without a care in the world that he’s interrupting Professor Vector. Michael hangs back in the doorway and ignores the stares the students give him. He’s getting a little used to being looked at oddly whenever he trails after Ashton or Luke or Calum. It’s not really all that different from before, when everybody glared at him for being the odd Slytherin that nobody wanted to befriend.

“Mister Irwin, I believe classes began half of an hour ago. You can’t possibly expect me to believe you’ve spent the entire time navigating your way to a different class and ended up here,” says Professor Vector mildly, stopping in the middle of her lecture.

“Certainly not, ma’am,” responds Ashton. He’s unabashed as always, even in the face of the unimpressed glare he receives from the professor. Michael envies his courage. “I’m not here to stay, anyway. I’m here for Luke.”

“And what is more important than Arithmancy that Mister Hemmings must rush off to?”

“Calum’s awake.”

The entire class gasps, and relief ripples through the room. Michael stands back from it all, observing. He’s in awe at how instantaneous of a response Ashton’s statement had brought. It’s proof here before Michael how much Calum’s adored by his peers. Professor Vector’s expression softens, and she, too, looks calmed in the wake of the news. Michael knows Ashton’s completely left off the hook for general classroom disruption.

Michael’s left to also envy Ashton’s ability to charm his way into anybody’s heart. He thinks about that time in the hospital wing the day Calum rushed in to save him from Finn and Archer, about how easily Calum had deflected Madam Pomfrey’s reprimand away from Michael, and he wonders if this is where Calum got it from. If it wasn’t as natural as Michael had originally believed it to be but rather learned from the master of it all: Ashton, himself.

“Very well,” says Professor Vector. “Hemmings, you’re dismissed. You and Hood are to carefully read chapter seven and follow the instructions at the end.”

Luke gathers books and shoves them haphazardly into his bag. He’s all the way across the room, but Michael can see the way his hands tremble with every movement. This is what they’ve been waiting for since Saturday. Calum’s been asleep for entirely too long. He’s awake now and just floors away. Luke’s eager to get to him. Michael understands the enthusiasm.

Out in the corridor, Luke adopts a quick stride. He’s got longer legs than either Michael or Ashton, so they have to hurry to keep up with them. He’s not significantly taller than the other two, but he’s a man on a mission. A wizard on his way to see his best friend. As they walk, Ashton fills Luke in on what he’s already told Michael, about Calum waking up to ask for Michael and also Luke and about Madam Pomfrey kicking Ashton out of the hospital wing to check him out. He falters when he comes to Michael’s part in the whole story leading up to Ashton’s dramatic entrance into the Arithmancy classroom.

“It’s not that difficult, really,” says Michael, blushing again, because now it’s Luke, who never liked him until Saturday, looking at him in amazement after Ashton enthuses over the void. “You just have to get a feel for the magic and move it around a little bit until you can slip through.”

It’s a little more complicated than that, but it’s nothing that Ashton, Luke, and Calum can’t do. They’re not like Finn and Archer. They don’t rely on brute strength and mean words. They’re not mean to Michael, either. The castle likes magic that is nice.

“You’ll still have to teach us,” concludes Luke, bumping his shoulder against Michael’s in camaraderie that Michaels only ever witnessed from afar. It sends heat radiating down Michael’s arm, all the way to his fingertips, and he can’t stop himself from smiling. He’d feel self-conscious about it, but he’s not given time. Luke grins over at him, like Luke knows exactly why Michael’s smiling, and he’s happy to have caused it.

They arrive at the hospital wing and waste no time over niceties as they enter. Michael nearly trips over his feet when he spots Calum awake and sitting up in bed for the first time since Saturday. His heart skips a beat in his chest. Luke and Ashton are hurrying to Calum’s bedside, but Michael feels like he’s walking through sloppy mud, like the kind on the way to the Green Houses in April when the ground is too saturated with rain to properly walk across without burying up to the ankles in the sludge with every step.

He makes it to the bed eventually. Luke and Ashton have already offered Calum their hugs, happy that he’s awake and talking over each other to tell him so. There is so much Calum’s missed in the days he’s been asleep. They’re eager to fill him in on everything. Luke sits at Calum’s feet on the bed, legs crossed, elbows on his knees. Ashton falls into the empty chair next to the bed, leaning forward onto it so that he, too, is in physical contact with Calum. It’s almost the exact same setup they’d adopted in the days they had sat at Calum’s bedside when he was unconscious.

Michael hesitates, staring at the scene before him. The three wizards before him fit together so perfectly. They’ve got years behind them, years to have perfected being a trio. He’s not so sure he belongs. He’d been running off nothing except stubborn hope that Calum would wake up over the past few days that he’d almost forgotten it was Calum and Luke and Ashton before it was ever him. Now, it’s so obvious before him again. There doesn’t look to be a place for him, too.

Then Calum looks up, as if sensing the dark, doubting place Michael’s thoughts had gone. Michael’s eyes lock with Calum’s for the first time since right before the quidditch match when everything was still good and right in the world. Since right before Finn had cursed Calum and Calum slept for three days.

Calum smiles, and Michael breathes easier than he has in seventy-two hours. The remaining space between them is easy to cross. Michael draws up short of touching Calum. There’s a bubble of happiness in his chest. It’s not going away, only expanding as the seconds tick by. This is all he’s wanted: Calum awake and safe again. He’s almost terrified to reach out to him, afraid that he’s merely imagining this whole thing and he’s maybe still in the library facing off against Finn and Archer. He’s not sure what he’d do if this is nothing more than a figment of his imagination.

In the end, Michael doesn’t even have to make the first move. It’s Calum who does. Calum’s face is pale from all the sleep, and his eyes are a little bloodshot in the aftereffects of the curse that’s still lingering in his body, but his hand is steady as it wraps around Michael’s own slack one. It’s this contact that stops the world mid-spin. Everything else fades from existence. It’s only Calum smiling up at Michael, and Michael grinning back. He’s so overcome with emotion that he’s crying, but that’s ok. Calum is, too.

“I think I owe you the world’s biggest thank you,” says Calum. His voice is scratchy from disuse, but it sounds like heaven to Michael’s ears. “ _Merlin_ , Mikey. You saved my life.”

Michael wants to kiss him, but he doesn’t. He shouldn’t want to kiss someone who’s been nice enough to be his friend when nobody else wanted to be. Even if he was allowed to kiss Calum, this isn’t the time. Calum’s just woken up. Even if this was any other situation, he probably wouldn’t even want to kiss Michael back.

“Anybody would have,” says Michael with a shrug, pushing away all of the inappropriate thoughts of Calum.

“But they didn’t. _You_ did.”

Michael doesn’t know what to say in response, so he bites his lips and drops his gaze to their hands still entwined together. It’s true that nobody else saved Calum, but Michael’s so certain anybody would have. People like Calum. Nobody wants to see him hurt. It just so happened that Michael was quicker with his wand.

“C’mere,” says Calum.

He tugs Michael down to him then lets go of Michael’s hand so that he can wrap his arms around Michael. It’s the tightest hug Michael’s ever experienced. The angle is weird at first. It strains Michael’s back. He tries to remain standing, unsure of what’s socially acceptable to do with his body. He hears Luke grumble behind him, and Luke nudges him onto the bed with his foot as if it’s that’s where Michael should have been all along.

Michael falls gracelessly into Calum’s arms. He’s terrified for a moment that he’s hurt Calum, because he hadn’t tried to catch his own weight when he’d dropped like a sack of potatoes on top of him, but Calum doesn’t complain. He only tightens his arms around Michael and buries his face into the crook of Michael’s neck. Calum’s breath is warm against Michael’s skin. After a moment, Michael hesitantly wraps his arms around Calum, too, and it feels right to hold him. Calum makes a contented noise deep in his throat.

“We’re keeping you forever,” promises Calum, and in the background, Michael can vaguely hear Ashton and Luke echo his sentiments. “Seriously, Mikey, you’re not going anywhere. Ever.”

Michael finally fully gives himself into the hug, and he’s pressed so close against Calum that he never wants to move. He nods his head in response, feeling too overwhelmed with the desire to kiss Calum right now to answer in any other manner. He’d quite like to be kept forever by Calum, Ashton, and Luke. It feels forbidden to admit to himself, let alone confirm it to Calum, but Michael’s been so lonely for so long that he doesn’t want to lose his only friends.

He thinks, briefly, of Finn and Archer. He pushes aside the tiny voice in his head that says _it’s only a matter of time before you get Ashton or Luke hurt like you got Calum hurt_. He’s going to be selfish—just for now—and hope they can forgive him for it when everything inevitably goes up in flames.


	7. Chapter 7

Calum gets tired easily after he’s let out of the hospital wing. The stairs are almost too much for him to take, even with all of the healing potions Madam Pomfrey insists he still drink every other hour, and he spends the second evening he’s free with Michael, Luke, and Ashton in an abandoned classroom near the Hufflepuff basement. Michael teaches them everything he knows about traveling through the voids in Hogwarts’ magic. Ashton picks it up with ease, jumping to and from various locations in the castle without a struggle. He grins proudly when Michael commends him on his success as if Michael’s praise means the world to him.

Luke, on the other hand, doesn’t do as well. He can’t separate the tendrils of magic from one another. It’s obvious that he’s a little put-out that Ashton and even Calum in his weakened state are picking it up better than he is. Michael doesn’t like the frown line that appears on Luke’s face when Ashton disappears midair once again.

“Try getting a feel for the castle’s magic,” says Michael. It feels weird to be giving advice to Luke. To be helping out a classmate. He’s never been asked to teach anybody anything before, and the fact that Ashton, Calum, and Luke were so eager to learn this trick of magic, from him nonetheless, is still bizarre to him. But he wants to do a good job. He wants to make his friends happy.

“Try being a little less cryptic,” snaps Luke.

Michael’s heart sinks. He takes an automatic step away from Luke, cheeks burning. He’s done it. He’s overstepped his boundaries. He’s not good at having friends. He doesn’t really know what to do with them. It’s proof right here: he’s made Luke mad.

“ _Luke_ ,” Calum says, growling the last of the Ravenclaw’s name. He’s sitting on the tabletop of one of the desks pushed up against the wall. The vial of healing potion is about three-quarters full and charmed to keep filling up until it’s time for Calum to take another dose. He’s due one in about half of an hour. It’s obvious that his last potion is wearing off. His complexion is getting gradually paler. He, himself, hasn’t managed to open a void for the twenty minutes, too weakened to push around the castle’s magic with any sort of success. He’s not even gone through one yet, either.

Luke’s eyes flash to Calum and then to the floor at his feet. He looks properly chastised, head bowed and cheeks pink. There’s still a tense set to his shoulders that belie his frustration. He takes a long breath, blows it entirely out of his lungs, before he speaks, glancing up at Michael.

“Sorry. It’s just— _you_ make it look so easy.”

“I’ve had a lot of practice,” says Michael, off-handed. It makes Luke flinch, this reminder that Michael’s so disliked by their peers that he’s been running from them for the past four and a half years. That he’s had to stumble across this trick in the first place. Michael feels a little less snubbed in the wake of Luke’s frustration. “Forget about the castle’s magic for a moment. Think about something that makes you completely happy. At peace. Focus on that, and invite the castle to you.”

Luke raises his eyebrows at Michael like he’s insane, but there’s a curious sort of hope glinting deep in his eyes that erases any suspicion that Michael is purposefully trying to come across as mean. Michael offers him an encouraging smile. Luke needs to make a connection with the castle, needs to prove to it that he is its friend, and needs to make it loyal to him.

Ashton appears out of nowhere, smelling a little like the forest. There’s a leaf in his hair, and he’s grinning so brightly that the entire room seems lighter. Luke steps forward to retrieve the leaf. He brushes Ashton’s curls out of his eyes—they’re getting so long now that he’s in a desperate need of a haircut—and freezes. Ashton’s grin fades ever-so-slightly. Tension thickens in the air around them, and there’s not a single soul in the room who isn’t thinking back to the quidditch match when Luke had turned his head at the exact wrong time to press his lips against Ashton’s. Time seems to hang suspended, and it has nothing to do with magic for once.

It feels a little too intimate to witness this moment between Luke and Ashton, but Michael can’t bring himself to look away. They’ve not been tiptoeing around each other as much as they were on that first day, when sitting at Calum’s bedside had been a touch away from awkward. There’s still an echo of their discomfort. It’s less so apparent right now when they’re staring at one another like they’re the only two people in the room. In the world, even.

“Try again, Lukey, and I’ll follow you right through. I’ll follow you anywhere.”

Luke bites his lip, and he nods. He glances toward Michael briefly. Michael thinks about repeating his earlier advice, about reminding Luke to think of something that makes him unbelievably happy, but he doesn’t need to, not with Luke within an arm’s length of Ashton. Luke closes his eyes. He looks completely at peace for the first time since they began this hours ago. The magic of the castle splits immediately, right between Luke and Ashton. Luke gasps in surprise when he opens his eyes to see what he’s done.

“Good job,” praises Michael, because he knows Luke’s waiting for recognition. Luke’s responding proud grin proves it to be true. “Now, just step through. See if you can get back.”

It’s a little nerve wracking the first time going through, but Luke holds his hand out for Ashton, who takes it without hesitation. The promise Ashton had uttered is still very much alive between them. Together, they step into the void and disappear into nothingness, leaving only the thinnest ripple of magic to dissipate behind them.

“Brilliant,” murmurs Calum. He and Michael are all alone in the room. There’s no other sound, so his voice almost echoes in the emptiness. “I knew he’d get it eventually. You were really patient with him.”

“It was all Hogwarts’ doing, really,” responds Michael, because he can’t take credit for the castle’s magic trusting Luke. He only guided the Ravenclaw in the right direction. The final decision was up to Hogwarts itself. “And probably Ashton’s, too.”

Calum smiles at him, and he shakes his head. He jumps off the table. He doesn’t quite stick his landing, wobbling precariously. Michael’s across the room to him, steadying him, before he can fall completely to the ground. Calum clings to Michael even after he’s on firm footing again. He lays his head against Michael’s shoulder like it’s the most natural thing to do in the entire world.

Michael tenses initially, unused to such proximity though he should not be after being friends with Calum and the others for a little while now. Calum feels good pressed closed to him, so Michael shoves aside all of his doubts. Hesitantly, he wraps his arms around Calum, drawing them nearer still. Michael can feel Calum’s smile against the bare skin of his neck.

“You need to learn to take a compliment. You’re bloody brilliant.”

“I’m not,” whispers Michael, squinting his eyes shut.

He likes Calum’s words, likes them even more since they’re spilling from Calum’s lips, but he can’t let himself believe them. He’s the reason Calum got hurt. He’s the reason Calum is weakened right now. That’s why he’s not brilliant. Calum would be fine if not for him, and he can’t help but to remember Finn and Archer’s threats in the library the other day. He’s going to get Luke and Ashton hurt, too, and when he does, Calum won’t think he’s brilliant anymore.

“But you are.”

Michael doesn’t know what else to say, so he stays quiet. He still refuses to believe the words. He tightens his arms around Calum, and he rests his cheek on the top of Calum’s head. He knows he needs to enjoy this now while he still can. He can’t get Finn’s threat out of his mind, though, and he knows he’s walking on thin ice, that at any moment the ground beneath his feet could give way and he’ll be left to the depths of loneliness once more. It’s not broken yet—he’s hardly seen Finn and Archer since Calum woke up—but it will. Michael needs to soak up as much of this feeling of having friends as he can now so that he’ll have something to look back on when he doesn’t anymore. When he’s inevitably all alone again.

Ashton and Luke reappear in the room with a quiet _swoosh_. The tear in the magic behind them weaves itself back together as they stumble hand-in-hand, giggling, to a half in front of Michael and Calum. They’ve just come from the kitchens. Of course, that’d be where they’d jump to. Luke’s got a swipe of pink icing on his cheek. He doesn’t appear to mind. He grins widely, high on life itself or maybe the thrill of the newness of the voids or maybe Ashton’s hand in his.

“Cal, you’ve got to try it for yourself!” says Luke. “Imagine never having to walk up all those stairs to get to divination. Or—or back down them to your common room. Or—or getting to the quidditch pitch on a second’s notice. It’s amazing.”

Michael grins at Luke’s enthusiasm, and so do the others. Calum stands up straight, leaning away from Michael, and Michael is saddened by the loss of contact between them. It’s stupid, though. Calum’s just his friend. Nothing more. Michael has no reason to feel sad about something as trivial as this, as Calum choosing to separate the two of them so that he can give the voids another shot.

“I just have to think of something that makes me happy, right?” asks Calum.

He’s still got the twinkle of exhaustion in his eyes that has been present since he woke up in the hospital wing, but he looks determined to try to open up a void. He waits until Michael nods, staring unabashedly in a manner he’s no doubt picked up from Ashton. He sets his shoulders, eyes never leaving those of Michael, and for a long moment, nothing happens.

Then it does.

The castle’s magic between the two of them begins to fray, pulling apart at the seams like a slow-motion take of a t-shirt being ripped into two pieces. Michael grins, proud again of one of his friends—even prouder, still, that he can call these people his friends—and it’s contagious. Calum grins, too. He tears his gaze from Michael’s to gawk at the rip forming in the magic. He reaches toward it, intent to make his escape now that it’s big enough for his body to slip through, but the magic in the room flickers. The tear starts to stitch itself back together inch-by-inch right before Calum’s falling smile.

Michael hates the look of disappointment that’s spreading across Calum’s face, so he does the only thing he knows to do. It’s purely instinctual to rush forward, wrap his hand around Calum’s wrist, and dive for the shirking void. The castle’s magic opens back up. The two boys spill through the hole onto the floor of the library in the next second. Michael trips over a stray book lying on the ground. There’s nothing to break his fall except Calum, who goes down with him.

They land in a pile of limbs on the floor of the library in the tiny hidden corner Michael favors. Every part of Michael’s body jars at the sudden stop, and underneath him, Calum grunts, taking the force of the fall. Michael curses underneath his breath. He tries to scramble off Calum, but it’s tight quarters in between the arm chair and the wall where they’ve ended up, and there’s nowhere really for him to go. Calum’s fingers dig into Michael’s biceps, a silent command to stop moving. Michael freezes immediately, looking up to meet Calum’s gaze.

“We need to work on the landing,” says Calum barely more than a whisper. He doesn’t look any worse for the wear after having taken the brunt of their fall. He doesn’t loosen his grip on Michael’s arms, either. “I think I understand why Ashton had so much fun with it. I mean, it’s kind of exhilarating, isn’t it? Being completely immersed in the castle’s magic?”

“Yeah,” agrees Michael. He should have something more intelligible to say, really, but it’s kind of hard to think about anything beyond how it feels to lie completely on top of Calum or how close his face is to Calum’s. He could kiss Calum right now. It wouldn’t take much, just a slight drop of his lips against those of Calum, and that’d be that.

Calum’s lips are so, so pink. He flicks out his tongue and runs it along his bottom lip, and Michael’s gaze follows its movement. The air around them becomes thicker, like it’s been spelled to do so. They’re completely alone in this part of the library. Calum’s grip is strong on Michael’s arms, and Michael really, really wants to kiss him.

He doesn’t.

“Ow! What the—ow!” bellows Luke, suddenly and entirely too loud for the quietness of the library. He appears through the same void that hadn’t quite sealed behind Michael and Calum, landing in a crash against the pile of bodies already on the floor. He’s all elbows and knees, and one of them pokes Michael sharply in the side.

“What are you all doing on the floor?” asks Ashton, the only one on his feet. The tear in the magic ripples closed behind him. He whips out his wand and casts a quick silencing spell on the perimeters of the nook like it’s their own official hideaway.

“Well, _you_ pushed me,” snaps Luke. He scoots away from Michael and Calum to lean against the bookcase. He pulls up the right leg of his trousers to inspect his knee, which had apparently been the culprit of the bruise forming in Michael’s side. It’s an angry red. He pouts at it.

“Filch was coming!” says Ashton indignantly. “We weren’t exactly allowed to be in that classroom, and the last thing I need is detention for tomorrow. It’s Gryffindor versus Slytherin, and we’ve got to win—no offense, Michael. I mean, Gryffindor’s got to win on principle alone, of course, but Liam’s always bloody miserable after Louis wins a match, especially against us.”

“He’s not that bad,” says Calum. His breath tickles across the side of Michael’s face. Neither one of them have moved. It’s scarcely crossed either of their minds. Calum’s rubbing his thumbs in tiny circles against Michael’s arm, and Michael likes the way it feels. “Liam’s always nice.”

“You’re not his quidditch servant,” replies Ashton. He walks over to the arm chair and plops crossways onto it, his legs hanging over the side. He peers down at the pile that is Michael and Calum. “He told Grimmy and me that we should sleep with our bats tonight to, and I quote, ‘get in the right mindset for the game.’”

“Ooh. Kinky,” says Luke, flashing a smile up at Ashton, which brings a bright blush to both of their faces.

“So we’ve got to beat Slytherin,” says Ashton, choosing to look back at Calum instead of acknowledge the darkening of his cheeks. His eyes flash to Michael. “No offence again. I mean, I totally understand if you want to cheer for Slytheirn tomorrow, house pride and all. It’s not like—”

“Of course, I’m pulling for Gryffindor,” says Michael, desperate to assure Ashton. He’s not really sure why Ashton would even think otherwise, given how outcasted Michael is by his own house. Besides, there’s a spell he stumbled across the other day while hiding out in here to avoid Calum’s parents. He’d quite like to try it. He tells the others as much. “It’s sort of like a banner? Maybe? Like kind of what Harry had at the Hufflepuff-Gryffindor match? Only different. I dunno. It’s probably stupid.”

“It sounds brilliant,” says Ashton, eager already though he’s not even seen the final product. It’s probably for the best that he hasn’t seen any of Michael’s attempts thus far, either. They’ve been horrible failures, and the last one had been so bad that he’d had to throw the grotesque scarlet and gold sheet in the garbage just this morning.

“Yeah, it does,” agrees Calum.

Michael flushes, suddenly acutely aware of his position on top of Calum and how it’s not normal for friends to just lay on top of each other. He tries to get off Calum as gently as he can, but it’s hard to move in the small space, and he ends up knocking into Luke. It works out in the end, though. He mutters his apology to Luke as Calum draws himself up into a sitting position underneath the window that overlooks the quidditch pitch.

“It’s just—there’s this charm part of it, and I can’t get it exactly right,” says Michael, and he doesn’t know why he’s even discussing this in the first place. He had intended for it to be a surprise for Ashton during the game. He was going to pull it out in all its glory in support of the Gryffindors who had been so, so nice to him that night in their common room. Once he’s mentioned it, he can’t help but to talk about it. To admit that he’s possibly in over his head in a magical experiment for the first time since he arrived at Hogwarts. Usually, he can learn spells from books in a matter of a few hours. It’s been days now, and he’s no closer to perfecting the complexities of this spell then he was when he stumbled across it. His magic still isn’t up to the same level it was before he’d stretched himself too thin saving Calum. It’d been worth it, though, so he can’t really complain too much.

“I can help you,” offers Calum. “I’m pretty good with charms.”

“He is,” agrees Luke and Ashton in unison, like they’re running off the same brainwave. They grin at each other in the next second, and Michael feels like he’s intruding on a private moment he shouldn’t be for the second time that evening.

He looks away this time, turning to Calum. “Are you sure?”

“Absolutely—unless I’m overstepping here.”

Michael thinks Calum’s being ridiculous, and he almost tells him so. Michael’s has never had any friends, and he doesn’t know the limits of friendship, but he does know that friends help each other out. He and Calum are friends, as mind-blowing as that still seems sometimes. Of course, Calum’s not overstepping his boundaries. As far as Michael’s concerned, there’s not even a Calum-specified boundary. But he doesn’t say any of that, either.

Instead, he says, “I’ve never had anybody offer to help me with a spell before.”

It’s the wrong thing to say, and Michael hadn’t meant for it to slip out in the first place. But it’s out there. The smile drops from Calum’s face. He looks sad all of a sudden, like somebody has kicked his puppy or something. Michael glances at Luke then Ashton, and they look just as sad. He wishes he would have never said anything to begin with. That he would have just stuck with his plan to surprise Ashton and worked tirelessly until he could at least fake the spell enough to make it work.

“Well,” says Calum after a prolonged bout of silence, “you do now. You do forever now.”


	8. Chapter 8

The game is in precisely half of an hour, and Michael’s been awake for the past twenty minutes finishing up the banner. He doesn’t have a lot left to do. He and Calum had finished the majority of the spells last night, working until well past curfew in the tiny nook of the library. Ashton had skipped out early in deference to Michael’s surprise and out of fear that Liam might track him down and frog march him to his dorm out of pure quidditch-induced psychosis. Luke had trailed after him, wanting to practice jumping through the voids a few more times before he, too, had to turn in for the night.

Just as Ashton and Luke had promised, Calum is a genius at charms. He’s even better it at than Michael, learning the spell exactly fifteen minutes after he reads it straight from the book. It’s a relief, even if Michael is a little jealous of Calum’s natural ability. He takes it for what it is, and he compliments Calum’s wand work, and he absolutely does not think about kissing Calum—except he kind of does.

They’d finished it all, for the most part. It’s a large banner made out of a bed sheet that one of the house elves had kindly gotten for Michael. The elves have always liked Michael, and he’s nice to them. Always makes sure to compliment them on their cooking or on their mismatched socks or on whatever else might make the tiny creatures happy. At the end of the day, that’s all Michael really wants: for everybody to be happy.

This banner should make Ashton happy. It’s scarlet and gold, true Gryffindor colors, and Calum worked the fitting charm on it, so now the words _Go Gryffindor!_ project out from the material to shine in all of their glory. The names of all of the members of the quidditch team are printed around the side, and in the center of it all is a moving picture of Ashton, bright and carefree and wearing a lion’s hat. It’s this part that Michael’s been perfecting by himself. He’d wanted to surprise Calum with it, too, so he’d sent Calum to bed last night without revealing exactly what last minute adjustment he wanted add was.

He hopes they all like it.

When he’s satisfied with the final product at last, he taps his wand against the material to shrink it down to a portable size. He gets dressed, slipping into the jumper that Calum had lent him last week. He looks around for the hat and scarf that he’d also been given. They were gifts from his friends, the first and only things he’s ever been given in his entire time at Hogwarts, so he wants to wear them with pride. He’s so sure he carefully stowed them in the bottom of his trunk to prevent his dorm mates from coming across them and ruining them. It’s happened before. His dorm mates have no sense of privacy when it comes to Michael, and he can’t bear for these precious items to be destroyed.

He finds the scarf and hat right where he left them, only this time they’re both solely Gryffindor colors. It makes sense that they would be charmed to support whichever quidditch team was playing. There’s no reason to wear any other color to this particular match. He’s certainly not going to support Slytherin. He winds the scarf around his neck. When he goes to put the hat onto his head, he spies the twisting pattern of blue and yellow inside of it. Michael smiles. He reaches out to touch it, to run his finger along the zigzagging portion of the yellow strip, and green bleeds into the material, too, like it belongs there as much as the other colors.

The match is ticking closer and closer. Michael really wants to catch up with Ashton to wish him good luck before he’s pulled inside the locker room for Liam’s pregame talk. It’s nothing like it was last week when Ashton, Luke, and Calum had all barged into the Slytherin dungeon to drag Michael out to the game. It’s a little odd, but he supposes they trust him to make it up to the match on his own accord. He’d promised Ashton he’d be there anyway.

He shoves the banner into the pocket of his robes right next to his wand. He’ll need to perform the warming spell again, but it’ll still be a little while before he actually goes outside, so he reckons he can wait to cast it. He doesn’t really want to crowd around the breakfast table all sweaty and hot, especially if he’s going to be there for longer than just a couple of minutes.

The common room is empty when Michael passes through it, but it’s only to be expected. There’s not a single Slytherin, Michael himself included this time, who is going to miss the match against Gryffindor. It’s the quidditch event of the year, the greatest of all rivalries. Slytherin took the victory last year in a riveting match underneath Louis’ first game as captain, and there’s even greater pressure now for him to make it a back-to-back championship. Usually, this is the first match of Slytherin’s season, but not this time. The unsettled magic around the pitch had opened up a great hole in the stands and delayed the beginning of the season. It’s all fixed now, has been for a few weeks, and it’s finally time for the rescheduled match.

The corridors leading up to the ground floor are empty as well. Michael’s giddy for the game. He had enjoyed himself last time until Calum had gotten hurt, so he’ll more than likely have fun at this match, too. It helps that Calum’s going to be in the stands next to him for this game. Michael will only have to keep an eye on Ashton. He won’t have to worry about Finn and Archer staging another attack on Calum, and he’s pretty sure the professors have kept the heightened security on the pitch anyway. Ashton’s probably safe. Michael’s heard the rumors of Professor McGonagall’s own Hogwarts quidditch playing days. He doubts she’ll let another student be attacked in the same manner Calum was.

There’s a frenzy of students outside of the Great Hall. The air is buzzing with noise. Michael can’t make out anything substantial, given all of the cacophony of voices around him, but there’s a chill in the room that makes the hairs on the back of neck stand up. He ducks his head out of habit, desperate to go unnoticed by his classmates as he searches for an easy path straight to the Great Hall where certainly his friends are waiting for him. Maybe they’ll explain all of the eerie excitement strumming amongst the students.

He’s feet from the Great Hall when he realizes the doors are barricaded shut, except for a tiny crack between them. There’s a big magical X across the doors. Two suits of armor stand guard on either side of them. Anxiety churns in Michael’s stomach. He doesn’t know what’s going on, still, but he’s starting to pick up on the unfriendly glares from the students around him—glares that he hasn’t gotten since he became friends with Calum, Ashton, and Luke—and that’s the first clue that something has gone wrong.

The second clue is much more in his face and much less expected. He stands at a loss separated from the rest of his peers, gazing wildly around for any of his friends. His chest is knots now, and it’s hard to breathe. Nobody is looking at him kindly, not even the Gryffindors who had once cheered his name, and he’s pretty sure the words _dirty Slytherin_ are directed at him.

He shrinks in on himself, fearful in the face of everyone’s hatred, and he’s so confused. He had thought everything was getting better, that his peers were beginning to accept the fact that Calum, Luke, and Ashton actually wanted to be his friend. He’d thought people were beginning to see him as something other than his family name or a Slytherin or whatever else it was about it him that made everyone dislike him on instinct. Now, he feels like he’s right back where he started.

He’s all alone in a sea of people who dislike him, and there’s nobody coming to his aid.

He catches sight of Luke by chance. He’s the only one wearing regular black robes in the midst of the Gryffindor quidditch team. Michael thinks it’s weird that at least some of the team isn’t already out on the pitch, namely Liam who always likes to walk the grounds before a match. But no. They’re all there—Liam and Nick and the rest of the team, except, strangely, Ashton. There’s an air of hostility about the team in place of the excitement they should be feeling about the upcoming game. It’s disconcerting. It doesn’t set right in the pit of Michael’s stomach.

Michael pushes aside his curiosity as he hurries over to Luke, desperate for somebody who won’t look at him like he’s a carrier of the wizard’s plague. He reaches out and grabs Luke’s shoulder as soon as he’s within arm’s length of him. Luke turns around. He jerks away like he’s been burnt when recognizes it’s Michael before him. A cold, familiar glare settles across his face.

“Pretty fucking nice of you to drop by to admire your handiwork, isn’t it?” sneers Luke. “What? Did you want to bask in the glow of your brilliance?”

Michael’s stomach hits the floor, and his chest knots up. He can hardly breathe. Everything else fades from his consciousness. There’s only Luke, angry and hurt-looking in front of him. He doesn’t understand what Luke is accusing him of. What handiwork he could possible want to admire other than the secret one tucked safely away in the pocket of his robes right now. He glances over his shoulder toward the large double doors to the Great Hall with a feeling of doom settling over his heart, and he doesn’t think he really needs to know anything else. Whatever is on the other side of those doors can’t be good for him.

“You’ve got it all wrong,” he says, because Luke really has. More importantly, he needs Luke to know that he has. He turns back to face Luke, readying his defense. “I don’t know what—”

“Get your head out of your fucking arse, _mate_ ,” snaps Luke, his voice a clear line of anger directed at Michael. “You had such a nice thing going for you, getting on Cal’s good side, goading him into feeling _sorry_ for you with your fucking sob story. You couldn’t stop there, could you? You couldn’t just fucking appreciate the fact that somebody might’ve thought the sun shined out of your arse. You’re just like your former Death Eater parents—a parasite to everyone and everything around you. Loyalty doesn’t mean a damn thing to them, and it doesn’t mean a damn thing to you!”

Michael recoils from Luke as if he’s been physically struck. Tears well up in his eyes, but he’s got his pride, even when he’s losing everything else. He blinks furiously against the urge to just cry right here, right now. Luke hasn’t been mean to him since he saved Calum, and Michael’d thought they were getting along rather well together. But now, Luke’s being even meaner to Michael than he’s ever been, and he won’t even hear Michael out. Won’t give him the consideration of a friend. Won’t think anything of him except that he’s no better than the darkness, than the evilness, of his family.

The truth is—the truth that nearly brings Michael to his knees as it rushes over him, Luke’s cold glare a sharp knife in Michael’s heart—they’re not friends, he and Luke. Friends don’t look at each other as if they’re Satan in the flesh. As if they’re Voldemort reincarnated. Friends don’t look at each other like Luke is looking at Michael now.

“You finally got what you wanted, didn’t you? Getting me and Ash to—just so you could—it doesn’t matter.”

Luke’s rapidly losing control of himself. It’s only when he rips his gaze away from Michael, dropping it to the floor, that Michael finally sees the reality for what it is: Luke’s on the verge of tears himself. Whatever it is that is behind those double doors to the Great Hall—whatever it is that Luke’s blaming Michael for—it’s hurt _Luke_. Finn’s threat echoes in Michael’s mind, and Michael thinks it must have hurt Ashton, too. After all, Finn had promised he’d turn to them if Michael didn’t bend to his will. Michael was stupid enough to take the gamble even though he knew he’d end up right here. End up with his friends getting hurt. End up with nothing for himself.

Michael’s heart shatters in his chest, and he forgets his own devastation. Forgets that he’s losing the most precious thing to him. Forgets it for just this moment. He feels numb staring at Luke, knowing it really is all of his own fault. He’s the reason Luke’s almost in tears. This knowledge—this _responsibility_ for the defeated slump of Luke’s shoulders—cuts him even deeper than Luke’s anger.

“You’re a fucking wanker,” says Luke, voice wobbly and eyes glued to his feet. He sniffles then wipes his nose with the sleeves of his robes. He sets his shoulders. He bravely looks back up at Michael, meets Michael’s gaze even though his own eyes are bloodshot with tears ready to fall down his cheeks. When he speaks again, anger builds in him with every word until it’s as large and as devastating as a tidal wave. “It’s no damn wonder nobody wants to be friends with you. Not if this is how you treat them. I mean, after you saved Calum, I thought I was wrong, but I wasn’t. You’re nothing more than a dirty Slytherin, Michael Clifford. It’s all you’ll ever be, so stay the fuck away from me and from Calum and especially from Ashton. We’re done with your twisted games.”

Luke whips out his wand before Michael even knows what is happening, and he unleashes a mighty hex. It hits Michael square in the center of his forehead. He stumbles back underneath the force of it, raising his hand to the spot where the spell struck. He doesn’t know exactly what the hex is, doesn’t know what it did to him. The top of his head tingles a little. It probably hurts. He’s not sure. He can’t really feel anything beyond the all-encompassing numbness that’s spread over his body.

Finn’s threat rears its ugly head in Michael’s mind again. Once it’s there, it doesn’t leave. It plays on an endless loop: _Guess you’ll listen now or there are two more we can work through_.

It’s all Michael’s fault. Luke’s glaring at him like he’s not even worth the dirt on the bottom of his shoe, and Michael can’t bring himself to look away, horror churning in his stomach. Michael doesn’t even have to know exactly why the Great Hall is closed off, but he knows who caused it. Finn’s carried through with that his threat, and Michael’s left to be the fool.

But still something inside of Michael wants to fight for Luke. Wants to try to win Luke back even though he knows it’s a vain effort. He knows how stubborn Luke can be. Michael stands his ground firm. He can’t lose Luke, because he can’t lose Ashton, and he certainly can’t lose Calum. All he’s ever wanted is friends. They were kind enough to be that to him. He doesn’t want to let them go.

“I didn’t—”

“Get the hell out of my sight before I turn you entirely green to match your stupid hair—let everybody see you for the dirty Slytherin you are,” spits Luke, and he raises his wand to do just that, but he’s stopped by a hand around his wrist.

“Lukey, don’t,” says Calum, and it’s the single best and worst moment of Michael’s entire day. Calum’s here. Surely he’ll listen to him. Surely he’ll let Michael explain what Finn had said to him in the library the other day. Then he’ll believe that Michael didn’t do what Luke’s accusing him of doing. But all of that hope shatters when Calum’s gaze flashes briefly to Michael. There’s nothing there. His eyes are blank, and his voice is empty. “He’s not worth it. Just—just go find Ash, okay? Find Ash. He really needs you right now.”

Michael’s world is crumbling right before his very eyes. He watches Calum draw Luke close to him. He watches how carefully Calum holds Luke, like Luke’s in danger of falling to pieces if he’s handled too roughly. He watches Calum start to guide Luke away from him through the throng of Gryffindors gathered on the staircase. He can’t stop himself from calling after them. He knows how pathetic he must look, but he doesn’t care. To hell with his pride. He didn’t have much to begin with. His worst nightmare is coming true, and there’s not a thing he can do to stop it except this. This one last hoorah.

“Cal!”

Calum halts, his shoulders tense. He’s holding onto Luke like they’re each other’s lifelines. For a long moment, he doesn’t otherwise react. Slowly, ever so slowly, he looks over his shoulder to meet Michael’s gaze once more, and Michael dies inside at the vacant glint in Calum’s eyes.

“I really wanted to believe the best of you, but you had to go and prove everybody right, didn’t you?”

He doesn’t wait around for a response. He pushes at Luke, and they hurry up the stairs through the gap in the Gryffindor quidditch team. Michael stares after them. He’s not sure he could have said anything anyway. His voice is caught somewhere in his throat, and he’s having trouble getting enough oxygen to his lungs. It’s hard to function with his heart shattering into a million tiny pieces of dust. His chest feels like it’s too small. He really, really wants to cry. He doesn’t let himself. Not here in front of everybody.

When he can no longer see Calum and Luke, he drops his gaze to Liam, but Liam can’t bear to look at him, either. That night in the Gryffindor common room when Liam had prompted all of the Gryffindors to cheer his name seems like an eon ago. Seems like a whole different life. One that doesn’t belong to Michael. One that he’s not lucky enough to have had to begin with.

There’s nothing left for Michael here, so he does the one thing he’s gotten good at doing over the past four and a half years of being not liked: he rips open a void in Hogwarts’ magic and escapes through it. The mass of people and mean words and judgmental glares disappear into nothingness. He steps through to the other side.

The Great Hall is eerie in its emptiness, and Michael falls to his knees right in the middle of it. The stone floor hurts when he lands. It jars him right to his teeth, but he barely feels it. A renewed wave of numbness settles in his body as he stares at the horror displayed in front of him. At the awful thing responsible for the end of him.

It’s a banner displayed in all of its glory for the entire student body to see the moment they step through the double doors. It’s stretched across the back wall above the head table, proud and obnoxious. It’s a brilliant shade of scarlet and gold undermined by blue and bronze, and right there in the middle of it, like a photograph magicked then enlarged onto it, is the shining faces of Luke and Ashton, a span of a three-second loop bringing their lips closer and closer together until it’s obvious what they’re doing: kissing.

It’s the worst way to come out in the entire world. Against their wills for everybody to see. For everybody to gawk at. For everybody to snub up at. It’s only made worse when Michael remembers the awkwardness that had hung in the air when Luke and Ashton had accidentally kissed before the Gryffindor-Hufflepuff quidditch game. Luke and Ashton have just been outed, and they haven’t even worked things out between them. Haven’t actually established whether they are or aren’t something more than just friends to each other. Haven’t come to terms with the fact that they might be falling in love with their best friend.

All of that—their free will to deal with this precious thing blooming between them—it’s all been cruelly stolen away from them, displayed on a faulty canvas with poor spellwork for no other reason than to hurt them. Than to isolate them. Than to destroy them.

Michael falls forward onto his hands, and he vomits all over the floor, unable to look at the atrocity on the wall any longer. Some of the vomit splatters off the stone ground onto Calum’s gifted jumper. It smells rank, overpoweringly so, and he vomits again, throwing up everything that’s left in his stomach. Everything else feels like it spills out, too. He’s weak and trembling all over.

On some level, he should probably care that he’s hovering barely a foot above his own vomit. That’s it’s all over his precious jumper. But both of those things barely register to him. He can’t stop thinking about how this is all his fault. He’s hurt Luke and Ashton. He’s broken his own promise to protect them. Luke was right to be angry with him. Calum was right for walking away.

Because even Michael hates himself more than he’s ever hated anybody in his entire life.

He really is nothing more than a dirty Slytherin.


	9. Chapter 9

Michael’s hair is an atrocious shade of Slytherin green. No matter what he tries, he can’t get the color out. It doesn’t help that he can’t identify the specific hex Luke had performed, either. If he knew that, maybe he’d be able to find out why none of his spells affect anything. The best he’s managed to do is to make his hair even more resistant to his magic.

In the mean time, he’s stuck with the awful color, and people sneer at him in the corridors. Halfway through his classes on Monday, he charms the beanie Calum had given him to a nondescript black color, careful not to damage the integrity of the precious gift. He shoves on it his head right before Charms. The beanie doesn’t cover up all his hair, but he feels safe wrapped up in the remnants of the friendships he once had.

When Professor Flitwick passes through the classroom on his way to the front, he hesitates before Michael like he wants to reprimand him for breaking the school dress code. In the end, he doesn’t. He promptly begins class instead, beginning to speak even before he reaches the final row of desks. Michael keeps his head down through the entirety of the lesson, but he can feel the weight of the other students’ unkind gazes upon him.

It’s just like first year all over again, and Michael relearns how to survive alone.

Michael takes refuge in the tiny, hidden away corner of the library when he’s not in class. Newt-the-hedgehog is his only company. He keeps Newt with him always now in an attempt to rid himself of the empty feeling of loneliness. Newt helps, even if the tiny hedgehog sleeps most of the time in the comfort of the pocket of Michael’s robes. It’s not the same as human companionship, of course, but Michael doesn’t have that option any more. He makes do with what he has.

He steers clear of the Slytherin dungeon for the most part now, choosing instead to spend all of his downtime in the back corner of the library. He’s even made a makeshift bed out of the armchair so that he won’t have to return to his dorm to sleep. The arm chair isn’t too uncomfortable once he’s reinforced it with a cushioning charm. While he misses his bed right next to the lake, he can’t bear to look at Finn and Archer. To know that they’ve secured such a devastating victory over him. To know that it’s just as much his own fault for what happened for not speaking up before everything went down.

The nook hidden away in the corner of the library is both a safe haven and a monstrous hell for Michael. It’s the only place in the entire castle that he doesn’t feel the oppressive hatred of all of his classmates. Everybody thinks it was he who put up the banner that outed Luke and Ashton. He hasn’t bothered correcting them. Neither Luke nor Ashton nor Calum would believe him, so he doesn’t see the point in trying to convince anyone else.

If he was ostracized before all of this, it’s even worse now. His peers might not like the fact that Ashton and Luke are gay, but they dislike Michael even more for humiliating them. For being a stereotypical Slytherin. For living up to his parents’ Death Eater legacy and betraying people’s trust. Everyone is mean to him in the corridors. Nobody wants to sit next to him in class, not even those who didn’t mind so much before all of this.

As much as he’s safe in the library from the glares and the hatred and the general disgust of his classmates, he’s submitting himself to a special kind of torture that makes all of the sneers and the mean words seem like child’s play. Calum and Ashton and Luke are all over the place in here. It’s almost a treat. Almost a comfort. Because sometimes, if he tries hard enough, he can close his eyes and pretend like they’re right with him still. Like he’s not completely, one hundred percent alone. Like he’s still got his friends.

He’s fortunate enough for those precious few moments of naivety, because he’s not always as lucky to be able to pretend. The tiny nook isn’t as alive with life as it was when Calum, Ashton, and Luke hung out in here with him. When this place was their secret hideaway. Now, it’s only Michael’s secret place, and, sometimes, it gets the better of him. He curls up in a tiny ball in the fluffy armchair right next to the window. He doesn’t stop the tears from falling. He doesn’t even try to silence his own sobs. The spells he’s taken to casting on the perimeter of this tiny nook is enough to ensure that nobody will stumble across him.

It’s awful being the one nobody likes. It’s even worse to know what it feels like to have friends but not have them anymore.

He goes to his classes. He keeps his head down, and he wears the precious gifted jumper underneath his robes. It doesn’t smell like Calum anymore. It’s molded itself around Michael’s shoulders now, so it doesn’t feel like it’s ever belonged to anybody else, but Michael knows it has. He knows it once belonged to Calum and that Calum once thought enough of him to give it to him. So he takes to wearing it all of the time. It’s a comforting reminder that there was a brief, shining period in which Michael was just like everybody else. In which he had friends.

Michael doesn’t talk to Ashton in Care of Magical Creatures, but on Tuesday, three whole days since Michael’s world fell apart, Professor Hagrid has them working with the fire crabs that have fallen sick in the progressively colder weather. Michael thinks of the day Ashton had gotten himself trapped by the crabs. He keeps a close eye on Ashton for the entire lesson. He can’t help it. He feels exponentially guilty for what had happened before the quidditch match—for the fact that he’s hardly seen Luke and Ashton together over the past few days—and he still feels like he owes something to the person who was once nice enough to extend their friendship to him.

So it’s only a natural reflex to cast a protective shield around Ashton whenever a stray fire crab circles behind him and starts to shoot flames. They disintegrate against Michael’s magic. Ashton yelps, surprised by the intensity of the heat that Michael’s spell does nothing to diminish. He spins around, flourishing his wand, but he freezes the moment he sees it’s unnecessary. Slowly, he raises his gaze to meet Michael’s through the transparent magic. Ashton blinks at him in surprise, his mouth gaping like he wants to say something. It’s probably a _thank you_ or a _why did you save me?_ but, in the end, Ashton doesn’t say anything. They hold each other gaze for a long time, until some Gryffindor accidentally knocks into Ashton, making him stumble to remain upright. He looks away from Michael then, and he doesn’t look back.

In potions the next day, after Michael’s done a pitiful attempt to brew a Calming Draught, there’s a vial of perfectly brewed concoction sitting innocuously on his workspace whenever he returns from putting away his extra ingredients. His own disaster has been vanished, whisked away like it never even existed. Professor Slughorn passes by his table before Michael can react to the vial, and he praises Michael for the first time in four and a half years. Michael smiles uneasily at him. He accepts the perfect grade for what it is. It’s enough to ensure his parents won’t be getting a letter any time soon about his failing potions scores. As he’s packing up his bag at the end of class, he meets Ashton’s gaze again, and just like in Care of Magical Creatures, they don’t say anything to each other, but this time Ashton offers him a tiny smile. Michael gives him one back.

Michael feels a little less lonely for the rest of the day.

On Thursday, Michael gets his first glimpse of Luke, who has been absent from potions all week. Michael is on his way down to the Greenhouses for Herbology. He’s running late, because it’s a farther trek from the library to the grounds than he had anticipated. He shoves open the heavy door that leads out the side of the castle, the closest exit to the Greenhouses. He plows right into a sturdy body, nearly knocking them both to the ground. A pair of strong hands catch him underneath his armpits at the last second, and he’s so eager to not be late to Herbology _again_ that he almost doesn’t bother looking to see who it is he’s bumped into.

The hands drop away from him like he’s burnt them. Michael almost topples over again, but he manages to keep his footing. His eyes snap up to his savior, and it’s Luke. Michael’s heart jumps to his throat. He thinks that, maybe, he should reach for his wand. Luke is looking at him like he did on the staircase the other day: like Michael is no better than Lord Voldemort. Michael shrinks away from him, abandoning his wand to wrap his arms protectively around himself. He doesn’t like this look on Luke, especially not directed at him.

Luke’s hand twitches toward his own wand like he wants to reach for it, but his gaze flits up to the beanie atop Michael’s head. He goes tense, the glare dropping from his face. Another softer emotion replaces it, but it’s gone before Michael can identify it. Luke looks back down to meet Michael’s eyes. He doesn’t say anything. Maybe because there is not much to be said between the two of them. He doesn’t look away from Michael, either, and Michael spies, for the first time, the absolute exhaustion glinting deep within Luke’s eyes. Luke doesn’t look good. He’s paler than he normally is, too. His hair is flat against his head like he doesn’t have any reason to want to style it, and it’s that which hits Michael the hardest.

Michael’s world may tilt on the axis of the friendships he’d once had, but Luke’s entire being begins and ends with Ashton. Michael hasn’t seen Luke and Ashton together all week. It doesn’t take much effort for Michael to put two and two together. Luke’s lost Ashton, and it’s all Michael’s fault. He thinks he should apologize, because he’d witnessed firsthand the spark between Luke and Ashton. Now, that spark is gone. He opens his mouth to let the words _I’m sorry_ fall from his lips—a far cry from the last time he’d tried to speak to Luke, desperate for Luke to hear him out. He’s not given a chance to speak this time, either.

Luke’s expression closes off, and that awful look returns to his face. His hand twitches toward his wand once more. He doesn’t use it. He shoulders past Michael, knocking Michael into the wall. He doesn’t look back. His robes billow behind him, his shoulders a tense line. Michael slides to the floor, unable to support his own weight underneath the guilt that he’s the reason Ashton and Luke both look like shadows of their former selves.

He stares after Luke until he can’t see him anymore. He doesn’t go to Herbology. By the time he picks himself up off the cold floor, the class is already twenty minutes in. He heads back toward the library instead, intent to wallow in his own wretchedness. It’s really no wonder nobody’s ever wanted to be friends with him, not if he can take something as precious as the spark that had blossomed between Luke and Ashton and stomp it out.

A bright of flash light fills his vision. In the next second, he’s lifted off the ground and slammed up against the wall. It knocks the breath out him. He slides uselessly to the ground, disoriented. He’s not sure, at first, where he’s at. He’d been too caught up in his own thoughts, trusting his feet to take him along the familiar route back to the library, that he hadn’t even bothered to take in his surroundings. He should have.

Here, standing side-by-side before him, are Finn and Archer. They’ve both got their wands out, and they grinning like they’ve just won the wizard’s lottery. Michael fumbles for his own wand, but it’s not in his pocket.

“Looking for this?” sneers Archer, holding up Michael’s precious wand.

All of the color drains from Michael’s face. Horror builds in his chest. He stands on shaky knees, using the wall at his back for support. It’s not the first time he’s faced such odds: wandless against the wanded. Back in first year when everyone was hell-bent on teaching him that Slytheirns can’t be friends with other houses, he might as well have been wandless then. He’d ended up in the hospital wing a few times before he found solace in the hundreds of magic books in the library that taught him everything he needed to know about surviving on his own. About fighting foes who were so much bigger and stronger and more skilled than him.

Now, he’s in the same position. Powerless against the powerful, and there’s nobody coming to his aid.

“That was quite a pretty picture in the Great Hall the other day, wasn’t it?” asks Finn mock-innocently. “Really captured the... essence of your friends.”

“Not friends,” says Archer, correcting his friend like Finn’s just made a grave error. He twirls Michael’s wand in his hand in a careless manner. “Clifford doesn’t have any friends, remember?”

“Ah, yes. I was mistaken. I mean, not even the Hufflepuff golden boy stuck around. It’s really got to say something about Clifford, doesn’t it?” asks Finn. It’s like Michael isn’t even here with them—or, rather, like he isn’t important enough to be acknowledged. “Who’d want to be friends with Clifford, anyway?”

The words cut deep. Michael winces, and a movement out of the corner of his eye catches his attention. He turns his head so that he can see better, so that he can make sure his vision isn’t playing trick on him. It isn’t. The bottom drops out of his stomach. There, at the far end of the corridor, is Calum, standing stock-still. Michael meets his eyes. He’s vaguely aware of Archer and Finn still berating him, still tearing him down. But, really, they’ve taken a backseat to Calum. Michael gets tunnel vision. The only thing in the entire world that matters is Calum, and Michael thinks about the first time they were in this position—when Calum had rushed in and saved Michael from Archer and Finn, no questions asked. They weren’t even friends then.

They aren’t friends now, either. It, therefore, shouldn’t surprise Michael that Calum doesn’t charge in to save the day again. Calum just stands there. He doesn’t move. He doesn’t break eye contact with Michael. He just stares, eyes dead and face blank, and Michael’s introduced to a brand new hell—a hell in which he’s absolutely, one hundred percent nothing to Calum. It’s a spectacularly new low point in Michael’s life, one he wishes he’d never known existed.

“We told you we’d do it,” says Archer, drawing Michael’s attention back to the conversation. They’re upset that Michael’s distracted, but neither bother to look up the corridor to see what exactly has stolen Michael away from them. Maybe they don’t care. Maybe they know already. “We told you to keep to yourself like a good little Slytherin, and you couldn’t do that.”

“So, we had to do it, don’t you see?” asks Finn, taking over. He’s talking to Michael like Michael’s a small child who has trouble understand the simplest of concepts. “We had to do it, because you didn’t listen to us the first time when we tried to be nice about it. I almost prefer the way it turned out, don’t you? It’s a win-win situation. You definitely won’t have this problem again—nobody even wants to _associate_ with you now, let alone talk to you. Plus, Hemmings and Irwin don’t have to worry about the school finding out about their secret, because everybody already knows.”

“We couldn’t have asked for a better turn of events,” adds Archer. He still has Michael’s wand, but he’s no longer twirling it around between his fingers. He’s holding it loosely at his side like it’s lost its value as soon as Michael stopped staring at it. “And it’s all thanks to you.”

The truth of Archer’s words strike Michael at his core, and he recoils from them. It really is all his fault that Ashton and Luke have been outed, that they’ve not spoken to each other since Saturday. Michael feels sick to his stomach. He’d made a promise to himself that he wouldn’t let them get hurt, but he did. They’ve been hurt in the worst of ways, and it’s all because of him.

Michael glances back up the corridor. Calum’s still there. He hasn’t moved. He’s too far away to properly hear what’s being said, but he’s not coming to Michael’s aid. Something inside of Michael snaps at Calum’s impassivity. Michael’s done. He can’t take it any longer, so he does the only thing that hasn’t failed him thus far. He shoves himself off the wall into a charge, and he tackles Archer to the ground, snatching his wand back.

Archer tries to grab him, but he’s not quick enough. Michael throws the first spell he can think of, creating a thin, white barrier of magic between him and the other two. It buys him just enough time to rip a void in the castle that he can jump through to the other side. To safety in the tiny nook of the library. The last thing he sees before he disappears into Hogwarts’ magic is Calum’s blank face at the end of the corridor.

The void lets out in the middle of the tiny nook, and Michael stumbles over to the arm chair. He collapses into it. An immediate, untamable sort of loneliness settles in his bones. It’s so quiet in here. With a trembling hand, he draws Newt-the-hedgehog out of his pocket, and he puts the tiny creature on the windowsill. Newt blinks open his eyes for just a few seconds before he falls back to sleep, content in the transfigured nest of old, unused books. Michael stares at the hedgehog, and he’s envious of how few troubles the creature has. All Newt has to worry about is that Michael remembers to feed him and that Michael doesn’t accidentally squash him while he’s dozing away in Michael’s pocket. Newt doesn’t have to care that other people don’t like him. He’s just a hedgehog, and Michael loves him, and Michael’s love is enough for him.

Michael sighs, turning away from Newt-the-sleeping-hedgehog. He’d had forgotten how quiet solitude could be. How isolating it feels. He tries not to think about what just happened, about Finn and Archer’s words or about the fact that Calum didn’t jump in to save him when he was so obviously vulnerable in his wandless state. He pulls the gifted scarf out of his pocket and lays it carefully on his lap, running his fingers along the striped pattern on one end. It’s the last of the three gifts he was given, and he soaks up all of the comfort of the past friendships that he can from it.

Sitting here in the jumper with the beanie on his head and the scarf on his lap, he can’t stop the tears from welling in his eyes. Or stop them from spilling over. Or stop them from falling.

He’s so, so lonely.

He misses Calum, Luke, and Ashton so, so much.

“Knut for your thoughts?”

Michael jumps at the voice. He looks up, tears still streaming down his face, and it’s Louis standing in the hidden entryway to the tiny nook. Louis’s eyes flash down to the Gryffindor scarf in Michael’s lap then to the giant yellow H on the black jumper. He sighs, his face clouding over in pity. Michael has to look away from him. He doesn’t like the pity, doesn’t feel like he really deserves it, because he’s brought all of this on himself by not confiding in Calum or Ashton or even Luke about Finn and Archer from the very beginning.

Zayn steps around the corner then, pushing Louis farther into the tiny hideaway. He’s nicer about his pity, letting it dance across his face only briefly before he schools it away. He whips out his wand to perform a silencing spell, but it’s needless. Michael hasn’t let his enchantments waiver since he sought refuge here.

“We know you didn’t do it,” says Zayn quietly.

Michael only blinks at him. He’s not sure he’s understood Zayn correctly, because the words that filtered into Michael’s ears make it sound like Zayn and Louis disagree with the entirety of the Hogwarts population. Like they believe in Michael. That’s impossible. Michael’s not that lucky.

“’S’what you tried to tell Luke that day before the match, isn’t it?” asks Louis. It’s odd to hear the softness in Louis’s voice. It makes him seem as small as he actually is, not larger than life like his boisterous and loud personally makes him out to be. Michael’s eyes flash toward Louis. Gone is the pity that was there earlier. In its place is nothing more than sympathetic anger. “Liam said you tried to talking to Luke, but Luke wouldn’t listen, and Calum wouldn’t either. You were trying to tell them that you didn’t do it.”

“I didn’t even know what _it_ was,” says Michael, surprising himself by speaking. He hadn’t known when he was begging Luke to listen to him exactly what was going on. All he’d known was that something bad had happened, and he was going to lose his friends.

Louis winces, and so does Zayn. They move like a cohesive unit to sit around Michael. Zayn conjures a chair and sits down in front of him, while Louis plops down on the arm of the one in which Michael is sitting. Louis falls against Michael in a friendly manner. Michael tries not to think about when Calum did the same thing, all the while proclaiming their friendship.

“They’re being proper wankers,” says Louis. There’s a fire in his voice that Michael’s only heard in relation to the name Nick Grimshaw. “And we’re going to fix that. Make them realize that they’ve fucked up in the absolute worst of ways—that, you, Michael Clifford, would never in a million years stoop to the level of your parents.”

Michael sometimes forgets Louis, too, comes from an old pureblood family just like his own, only all Tomlinsons for generations and generations have been sorted into Gryffindor until Louis himself came along, all snarky and unashamed to follow his best friend Zayn into the pit of the snakes. So Louis knows all about what Michael’s parents did in the war, how they paraded around like beacons of light but sold out innocent muggleborns for a price that made them very, very rich. He knows what loyalty means to Michael—what friends mean to Michael—because he understands Michael in a way that only children of the most ancient of pureblood families can.

“Why?” asks Michael, the only response he really has for Louis’s declaration.

“Because you’re sad, and you’ve been sad for a long time, and nobody’s cared enough to make you not sad, but we do,” says Louis, all-wobbly like he’s liable to start crying, too. “We’ve been bad Slytherins, Zayn and me. We should have had your back from day one, not leave you to the vultures.”

“We got a little caught up in ourselves,” says Zayn, laughing self-depreciatively. He leans forward so that he can place a comforting hand on Michael’s knee, and his thumb brushes against the tassels of the gifted scarf. “But we’re not anymore, moving forward. We’ll talk some sense into them, I promise, and if they’re not willing to listen...”

Zayn’s eyes flit toward Louis, and the two share a forbidden smirk. It reminds Michael of the aura which had surrounded the pair of them last year while Nick walked around Hogwarts with lime-colored hair. A thrill runs down Michael’s spine, and he doesn’t wish to unleash the terror that is _LouisandZayn_ on Calum, Luke, or Ashton. They didn’t do anything wrong to deserve such a fate. It’s all on Michael.

“We’re kidding,” says Louis. He elbows Michael in the ribs. It’s a total lad move, and Louis’s eyes dance with mirth. There’s a serious air about him, though, that belies his willingness to have Michael’s back, no matter the cost. “About them not listening. They will.”

“But they didn’t to me,” says Michael, candid, because somewhere along the line, Zayn and Louis have stolen his brain-to-mouth filter. It hurts that neither Luke nor Calum had bothered to listen to him that day. That they were so eager to believe the worst in Michael. It might be entirely his fault that Luke and Ashton got hurt in the first place, but Luke and Calum were the ones who chose not to give Michael a chance to explain. That probably hurts worse than the oppressive silence that’s been the reality of Michael’s life over the past few days.

“They’re bloody wankers for it,” says Zayn. “Trust us, okay?”

Michael meets Zayn’s eyes, and he wants to say that it’s not that easy. That Calum and Luke and Ashton basically asked the same of him, and he gave himself so willingly, and they fucked him up. They turned their back on him at the first chance they got. He wants to tell Zayn that he’s not sure he’s capable of trusting so blindly again.

Zayn’s hand tightens on his knee like he senses exactly where Michael’s thoughts have gone, and he’s trying to chase them away. Zayn looks up to meet Louis’s gaze, and in the next second, Louis shifts around so that he can throw his arm around Michael’s shoulder and draw him in for a bone-crushing hug. He leans down to press a comforting kiss on the top of Michael’s head, like Louis might do for his younger siblings. Michael freezes. He remembers Ashton doing the exact same thing the night the two of them and Luke were squashed together in Ashton’s bed, clinging to the same desperate hope that Calum would be okay. A sharp pain shoots right through Michael’s chest, and he wishes it were Ashton right here to comfort him now, too. Ashton’s not, though. He can’t be, so Michael settles for Louis, who is a decent enough replacement.

“Okay,” says Michael finally, and it’s barely a whisper. He feels like he’s standing on the edge of oblivion. One wrong move, and he’ll fall, and he’ll never stop falling. He can’t help but to agree, though. It’s self-destructive, maybe, but he misses his friends. He misses Calum and Luke and Ashton like he misses the summer in the middle of the cold, unforgiving winter. It’s all of his fault that they crashed and burned, but that doesn’t have to be the end of them. “Okay, I’ll trust you.”


	10. Chapter 10

Louis and Zayn are... They’re exactly what Michael expected, yet not at the same time. They take Michael under their wing like it’s their mission in life to be friends with him, and they don’t let him hide out in the library anymore. He sleeps in the sixth year boys’ dorm with them on a transfigured bed, right in between their own. The other sixth year Slytherins don’t pay him any mind, and it’s the first time all week that he hasn’t been sneered at. He sleeps so, so well for the first time in a long while.

During meal times, Louis drags Michael over to the Gryffindor table where Liam and Harry and Niall are already seated. Michael’s not given a choice to sit anywhere else, not that he would have chosen an alternative table left to his own devices. He’s manhandled into his seat by Louis like they’re all afraid he’ll bolt at the last second. He doesn’t, but it’s only because he’s pretty sure Liam, at Louis’s command, could tackle him to the ground before he made it very far. Liam always complains, but he doesn’t actually mind caving into Louis’s wild schemes.

So Michael remains seated. He refuses to look anywhere near the front of the hall where the awful banner once hung. He doesn’t need the reminder so obviously thrust in his face. It feels like every eye in the Great Hall is trained on him, but Louis and Zayn make sure to sit on either side of him like they’re his personal bodyguards. They threaten to hex a nameless Gryffindor who, at dinner, has the audacity to tell Michael he’s not welcomed at the table.

Michael shrinks in on himself. He keeps his head down during the main course, only looking up when the nameless Gryffindor shrieks loudly. His gaze snaps up to find the Gryffindor dabbing furiously at her school robes. She’s covered in pumpkin juice, and her attempts to sop up the mess with her napkin only make it worse. Michael stares at the goblet that’s tipped over on the table. He knows it wasn’t an accident, knows somebody had to have knocked it over on purpose, because it’s perfectly angled right toward the mean Gryffindor.

Michael looks up to find Ashton staring straight at him. There’s a smug tug at the corner of Ashton’s lips. When he meets Michael’s eyes, he doesn’t say anything, but he does wink, as unabashed as Michael’s ever known him. Michael’s gaze flashes briefly back to the goblet. He looks back at Ashton and offers him a small smile in response. Ashton’s own grin widens.

Warmth builds up in Michael’s chest. It feels a little bit like hope. He clings to it like a dying man to life.

On Friday, the heads of the houses each place a scrap of parchment on the bulletin board of the common rooms. The students who are planning to remain at the castle over the holidays are to sign it. Michael watches Professor Slughorn magic it to the board. A few students hurry over to write their names, eager to experience the magnificence of the Great Hall at Christmastime with their friends.

Michael stares at the board, unmoving. He knows he has to put his name on the parchment, but it makes him sad. He’s got nobody to spend Christmas with. Louis and Zayn and the others have been really nice to him, but they’ve all got plans to go home to their families. Michael doesn’t have that option, as his own family doesn’t want him to come back home. When the holidays come, he’ll be all alone once again.

“Maybe we can meet up at Christmas,” says Louis appearing almost out of nowhere behind Michael. Zayn shadows him, stepping over to Michael’s other side to get out of the doorway that leads to the corridor outside. “Me family always goes to the Ministry dinner. I haven’t gone in ages—I usually hide out at Haz’s—but I suppose this year I can manage it. You’ll be there, won’t you?”

Any other year, Michael would have said yes. His father works in the Minister’s personal department, and his mother is the head of the Department of International Magical Cooperation. His family, therefore, attends every year. It’s expected of them, of course. More importantly, though, it’s good for the image of the pureblood superiority that his parents privately adhere to. Michael usually dreads the dinners. He hates having to sit at a table full of snooty purebloods who are just as full of themselves as Michael’s own parents. Who once ran in the same circle as Michael’s parents back in the so-called good old days that actually weren’t all that good. Who think association with the prestigious Clifford name—with the family who almost singlehandedly undermined the Order of the Phoenix’s entire war efforts—will bring them the same kind of honor.

Louis’s suggestion of the two of them meeting up is tantalizing. Michael might have even looked forward to the dinner, knowing that he wasn’t going to spend it with people who simultaneously envied and disliked him on the basis of his family name alone. But he doesn’t even have to worry about the dinner this year. It’s, perhaps, the only nicety that has come his way.

“I, er, am not going.”

“Sweet,” says Louis, grinning devilishly over at Michael. “How’d you manage that? Your family’s always in attendance.”

Michael’s quiet for a moment, thinking about the letter he’d received from his parents. It seems like eons ago now since he’d first read the words _don’t come home_. They don’t hurt any less, not even now as mere memories. The thing is, he wants to go home right now. He wants to go home where he can hide away in his childhood bedroom and try to forget about the emptiness in his chest and how he once had Calum and Luke and Ashton as friends but doesn’t anymore.

“Kissed the Minister’s son at the end of the summer garden party right in front of the Minister of Magic himself,” says Michael offhandedly.

It’s not like that’s really too big of a secret, really. He’s sure most people, at least those from pureblooded families like Louis’s, have heard of the upheaval he caused in the Minster’s back garden. Michael has been certain of his sexuality since that day in third year when he realized how attractive Calum was. Michael’s classmates have known that he’s gay for almost as long, because he’d never felt the need to hide it from them. They didn’t like him anyway. It wasn’t, therefore, that much of a surprise to anyone that Michael had gotten caught with another bloke, but the Minister’s son—whose name Michael’s still not certain he got in the first place—is an entirely different story. It’d been a shock to everybody to find the Minister’s son sucking face with a bloke, and Michael’s parents had been humiliated that Michael himself had been said bloke.

Zayn whistles through his teeth and says, “Never knew you had it in you. The Minister’s son...”

Yeah, Michael didn’t know he had it in him, either. The Minister’s son has always been a bit of a prick and entirely too _good_ to be educated at a place as mundane as Hogwarts—or so he’d drunkenly exclaimed halfway through dinner as he’d waxed poetically about the wonderful school of Beauxbatons, where his mother’s side of the family has attended for generations and generations. Michael couldn’t stand the Minister’s son, really, but firewhiskey is magic in itself. It has to be, otherwise Michael’s not entirely sure how he ended up locking lips with that snobby bastard in the first place. It’s not one of Michael’s finer moments, especially since the shit-storm it had caused is still tornadoing a path of destruction right through his life four months down the road.

“So you’re just, what? Going to stay at Hogwarts for Christmas?” asks Louis. He nods toward the bulletin board where the line of students eager to sign their names on the parchment is quickly dwindling.

Michael winces. “I’ve not really got another choice, now do I?”

A shadow passes across Louis’s face. His lips turn down into a frown. He looks between Michael and the parchment again. He growls, frustrated and loud, and half of a dozen of the nearest Slytherins snap their attentions to him. He ignores them all, turning abruptly on his heel.

“You know what? Fuck this. I’m fixing things. _Now_ ,” he throws over his shoulder, stomping toward the door to the common room. He doesn’t look back at Zayn or Michael. He doesn’t offer any other explanation as to what he is planning to do, either. He stalks out of the Slytherin Dungeon, disappearing into the corridor outside.

Michael turns to Zayn, totally confused. When he’s met with Zayn’s cold, calculated expression, anxiety begins to churn in Michael’s stomach. He’s not sure what it is that’s glinting in Zayn’s eyes right now, but it’s the same as the shadow that had crossed Louis’s face only a few seconds ago. Wordlessly, Zayn moves to follow Louis. He strides with a purposeful bounce, his steps large in an effort to catch the common room door before it swings shut. Michael scampers after him, his curiosity trumping his worry.

They catch up to Louis at the first flight of steps. Michael dares to ask what Louis thinks he’s doing, but Louis doesn’t give him an answer. He’s a man on a mission—to do what, Michael’s not certain—and Zayn, when prompted, doesn’t dignify any of any Michael’s questions with a suitable response, either. Michael stops asking. He slows his gait, no longer matching their pace step-for-step.

Louis comes to a sudden stop in front of a stack of barrels down the corridor from the entrance to the kitchen. It’s hidden away in a tiny nook that Michael’s probably walked by hundreds of times over his career as a student but has never before noticed. Louis draws his wand from the pocket of his robes and taps a strange pattern on one of the barrels. The lid swings open, revealing a tunnel that Louis doesn’t hesitate to enter. Zayn follows closely behind, and Michael does, too.

The tunnel opens up to a round common room with a low-ceiling. It’s obviously the Hufflepuff Basement. Michael’s never been in here before, but the overwhelming yellow color and the abundance of vegetation gives it away at first glance. There are a few Hufflepuffs mingling around in the squashy armchairs, and they all look up when Louis barrels boldly into the room. He makes a bee line right for the group of mismatched students in the corner. He draws up to them and halts, gazing coldly down at the lone Hufflepuff before him.

“You’re a fucking wanker,” spits Louis directly at Calum. He glances at Luke then Ashton. “You two are, as well.”

“Harry’s down in the dorms visiting Niall, if you’re looking for him,” says Luke, returning Louis’s glare. He’s intentionally ignoring the others who are with Louis. “And Grimshaw’s not here at all, so I think you’re in the wrong common room, mate.”

“Don’t be an arse on top of everything else,” snaps Louis. “It doesn’t look good on you.”

“Playing the hero doesn’t look good on you,” says Luke. He’s the only one thus far who has dared to speak. His eyes flash over Louis’s shoulder to Michael. A sneer mars his otherwise handsome face. He sits a little straighter in his chair, poised on the edge of it like he could leap to his feet at any moment, wand at the ready. “Michael’s just a dirty Slytherin, and he’ll turn on you, too, if you give him long enough.”

Michael recoils at Luke’s words, taking a step back against the force of them. Against the unadulterated hatred coursing through them. He looks at Calum, but Calum won’t look at him. Michael’s heart skips a beat in his chest, and he feels like he did the other day in the corridor when Calum hadn’t come to his aid. The brand new hell is back to slap Michael in the face. He means nothing to Calum.

He turns his gaze to Ashton instead, because he can’t handle Calum’s passivity any longer, but Ashton’s attention is trained on Luke. They’re seated across from each other, so far apart that the space between them is painfully obvious. It’s the first time Michael’s seen the two of them in the same vicinity all week, and he wonders how this came to a head. He wonders how Calum corralled the two of them together after Michael caused them to fall horribly apart.

Zayn steps up to shoulder-to-shoulder to Louis, two Slytherins strong. He’s never really been a man to fight, but he knows how to take a stand. He and Louis have been best friends since the day they met, Michael’s pretty sure, and Louis has certainly gotten them into enough scrapes over the years to teach Zayn how to have Louis’s back. Now, Zayn has Michael’s back, and Louis does, too, and Michael can only cower behind them, too broken by the people on the other side of the battle line to even defend himself against the unkind words.

“That’s the best you have?” asks Zayn. His voice is hard like the anger on his face, and he seems dangerous without even needing to reach for his wand. He glances over his shoulder at Michael, expression softening for a split second at the pitiful sight he’s met with. He turns back to Luke and the others. “Michael didn’t do it, you know. He didn’t hang that damn banner in the Great Hall, and he tried to tell you as much, but you didn’t listen.”

“He’s a Slytherin,” says Luke, like that explains it all.

Neither Calum nor Ashton speak, but they don’t disagree with him either. Michael sinks in on himself even more, hiding behind the safety that is Louis and Zayn. He wishes he were anywhere else, that he hadn’t let his curiosity get the best of him, that he hadn’t needed to know why Louis had stormed out of the Slytherin Dungeon with fire in his eyes and his hands clenched into fists. He kind of wants to leave now, to rip a void in the castle’s magic and disappear into nothingness where Luke’s mean words and Calum’s and Ashton’s silence can’t hurt him anymore.

But he doesn’t move. He can’t. He feels like he’s glued to the spot, like he’s been hit with a Full-Body Bind Curse and is forced to watch this all play out before his very eyes. Some small part of him wants to stay. It’s the very same small part of him that is stupid enough to hope that Louis and Zayn can magic everything back together again. That they can convince Luke and Ashton and especially Calum that Michael didn’t betray them. That he’d never in a million years ever want to be mean to the people who were nice enough to be friends with him when nobody else ever wanted to be.

“That’s the best you have?” scoffs Louis. “He’s a bloody _Slytherin_? Guess what, mate. Zayn and I are, too. We have been—longer than Michael, in fact—so when you say that shit about Michael being a dirty Slytherin, you’re saying it about me and Zayn, as well. Let that sink in for a moment.”

“So what you’re saying is that you and Zayn also hurt me and Ashton? That you were in cohorts together?” challenges Luke, finally getting to his feet. He reaches for his wand, unconsciously—or, perhaps, purposefully—stepping in front of Ashton as if protecting him from Zayn and Louis and Michael.

“You’re off your broomstick,” says Zayn, voice low. He still doesn’t feel the need to reach for his own wand. He barely pays any mind to the one Luke’s holding, but he does place a calming hand on Louis’s wrist when Louis goes for his wand in retaliation. Zayn has always been there to keep Louis in check. “Look, I get it. You’re hurt, and Ashton and Calum are, too, but has it ever occurred to you that your ignorance has hurt Michael?”

It’s not Luke who answers, who is ready with a response on the tip of his tongue. It’s Calum. He looks Zayn straight in the eyes, and his voice is empty when he speaks.

“What does it matter?”

The bottom drops out of Michael’s world. For a moment, he’s not even sure he’s still standing, let alone existing. His heart absolutely refuses to beat in his chest. His stomach jumps to his throat, and when he tries to draw air into his lungs, he’s lost the ability to breathe. Tears spring to his eyes. He doesn’t know if they fall. He can’t feel them if they do. His entire body is numb. The only reason he knows his eyes have even watered is because his vision goes all blurry.

He’d expected it from Luke.

But not from Calum.

Never from Calum.

Somebody gasps, horror-filled, and Michael thinks it might be him, but the world is deadly quiet in the aftermath of Calum’s callous words. Zayn and Louis part, turning to face Michael. Their mouths are hanging open, identical in their devastated astonishment, like they know they should say something. They should comfort him, reassure him that Calum’s wrong, that it _does_ matter that Michael has gotten hurt. That _Michael_ _is_ _hurting_. But the words don’t come to them. Or, if they do, Michael doesn’t hear them. He can’t.

Calum finally looks at him then, finally acknowledges Michael’s presence for the first time, and everything else fades from Michael’s awareness. Time slows to a halt, though Michael’s almost entirely certain that it doesn’t really. That the world is still very much spinning and that time is indeed moving forward. But it doesn’t feel like that for him, because Calum has that awful, dead expression on his face again—the one makes it painfully clear that Michael is absolutely, one hundred percent _nothing to him_. Worse than, even.

Michael’s not exactly sure what could be worse than nothing, but whatever that is, he’s pretty sure that’s what he is to Calum.

There’s no coming back. There’s no happy ending. Maybe there hasn’t been this entire time, and Michael has just been too thick to admit it. To admit that he’s lost the best thing he’s ever had. To admit that Calum and Luke and Ashton aren’t his friends anymore and will never be again.

It’s staggering, coming to terms with what’s really there—or, rather, what’s not there at all. Michael nearly collapses in on himself underneath the weight of the awful reality. He feels like the entire universe crashes in on him. He doesn’t even have to reach for a void this time, not consciously, at least. One comes to him, and it swallows him up, and the image of Calum’s blank, unfriendly face is burned forever in Michael’s mind, haunting him even after he’s long gone from the Hufflepuff common room.


	11. Chapter 11

Michael spends the entirety of the night roaming aimlessly around the grounds of Hogwarts, jumping through voids in the castle’s magic to keep away from every other living soul. He doesn’t pay any attention to the routes he takes. He just lets his feet carry him one step at a time to no destination in particular and trusts the voids to keep him safe. His heart pounds to the beat of Calum’s words, harsh and mean in Michael’s mind: _What does it matter? What does it matter? What does it matter?_

Twelve hours later, and Michael still doesn’t have an answer. The truth is—the truth that he knows to his very core—it doesn’t matter that he’s been hurt. He’s the reason Ashton and Luke got hurt, and that’s a thousand times worse than anything that could ever happen to him. He’d made a promise to himself that he wouldn’t let Finn and Archer get to them, but they did, and now Michael doesn’t know where Luke and Ashton stand to each other, but he’s pretty sure it’s nowhere near where they once stood. Where they should still be standing, had Michael not been absolutely careless in keeping his vow.

And Calum... When Michael’s left alone to his thoughts, with nothing around him except the ancient magic of the castle and the emptiness of the corridors in the predawn light, he finally admits to himself that he’s mad at Calum. It’s the first time he’s let himself entertain such a novel idea. Calum had been so, so nice to Michael. He’d offered Michael his friendship, and he hadn’t seemed to care that nobody else ever had. He’d made Michael believe that Michael was enough for him. He’d lured Michael into a false sense of security. They all three had. Calum and Luke and Ashton. They’d built Michael up on that foundation, only to rip it right out from underneath him at the first bump in the road.

Neither Calum nor Luke had given Michael the benefit of the doubt. They hadn’t given him a chance to explain himself or even a chance to pull out the banner he’s had safely stowed away in the pocket of his robes ever since that day and prove to them that he didn’t do it—that he’d never, ever want to hurt Luke or Ashton. That he’d rather literally _die_ than hurt them or Calum.

But Michael wasn’t given the opportunity to tell them any of this. They didn’t listen to Louis or Zayn, either, and it aches right to Michael’s bones that the first people to ever extend their friendship to him could throw it away so easily. So he’s mad, and he’s hurt, and he just really, really wants everything to be like it was before it all blew up in his face.

By the time Louis and Zayn finally track him down, the sun has officially risen on a brand new day, and Michael’s heart doesn’t hurt any less. He’s stopped jumping through the voids an hour ago. He’s tired now. Tired of running. Tired of feeling. He’s sitting in the cold courtyard, his back to the stone wall of the castle and his head tilted up toward the cloudy sky. There’s already a blanket of white all across the landscape. It’s going to snow again soon. It’ll be a white Christmas, no doubt.

 He doesn’t move when he hears the footsteps, mostly because Louis yells out his name almost as soon as Michael realizes that anybody is around. Michael turns his head lethargically toward the sound of his name. Louis breaks into a run, slipping and sliding across the icy-slick stones. His Slytherin robe billows behind him. He crashes into Michael, barely bothering to slow down any before they collide. The force is jarring, and Michael thinks it should hurt. It doesn’t. He’s still numb from last night.

“We’ve been looking for you forever!” says Louis, voice shrill right into Michael’s ear. It echoes up into the openness, and he’s entirely too loud for the world at such an early time of day. He doesn’t seem bothered by it, though. He places his hands on Michael’s cheeks. They’re red-hot warm, but maybe that’s because Michael’s actually tremblingly cold. Louis winces against the temperature difference, though he doesn’t move his hands. He forces Michael to meet his earnest blue eyes. Worry lines mar his face. “You just disappeared into thin air. One second you were there and the next... You just weren’t.”

“They’re supposed to be myth, the voids,” says Zayn quietly. He’s finally caught up to them. He hadn’t exactly run to Michael like Louis had—Michael’s not certain Zayn’s ever felt the need to _run_ anywhere before in his life—but he’d made an obvious effort to quicken his pace until he’d reached them. “But I suppose _you_ would be the one to prove everybody wrong. ‘S what you’ve been doing since you arrived here, yeah?”

It’s an attempt at humor, but it falls flat when Michael can’t even bring himself to match Zayn’s teasing grin with a smile on his own.

“They didn’t believe you,” he says instead, breaking eye contact with Louis to stare at the green and silver jumper that Louis is wearing underneath his robe. He thinks that maybe he hates these colors. He hates them for what they’ve branded him: dirty, untrustworthy, friendless.

He really wants to cry again. He thinks he might. All of the bad things are piling up on him. His hair is an atrocious shade of Slytherin green, and neither Calum nor Luke nor Ashton believed Louis and Zayn, and he’s going to be spending Christmas all alone in the castle, because his parents don’t want him home.

“They’re bloody wankers,” spits Louis. “Z wouldn’t let me hex them—says I can’t afford another detention or Slughorn will be writing me mum, and I don’t need that for the holidays—but I swear, I’ll march right back up to them right now and curse them into the next century if that’s what it take to make them believe. I swear I will.”

 Michael sniffles. He can feel the tears welling back up in his eyes. He blinks furiously against them, but it’s no use. They fall anyway, and Louis lets out a pained whimper at the sight of them. Louis draws Michael back into a hug, somehow managing to force Michael’s face right into his chest so that he can rest his chin on the top of Michael’s head despite the fact that Michael’s got half of a head of height on him. Michael lets himself be manhandled, because it feels good to be held and comforted and cared for.

He knows that Louis and Zayn like him. That they’re purposefully going out of their way to be friends with him and make him happy. That they feel they need to, because they’re fellow Slytherins and Slytherins look out for one another. It’s nice, but it’s also unprecedented. Michael’s not had any of his housemates to ever look out for him before, and Zayn and Louis have never before taken somebody under their wings.

But there’s a tiny voice in the back of his mind that questions why they’re even bothering with him. If Calum and Luke and Ashton couldn’t bear being friends with Michael, then Michael doesn’t think Louis and Zayn will last very long, either. There has to be something about Michael that just makes people run the other way. That  leaves him all alone in the end no matter what he tries to do. He’s sure that Zayn and Louis will leave him, too, but he lets himself be weak for now and revel underneath their protection. He thinks he needs it. He needs to be selfish. It’s so, so lonely to be the one nobody wants.

Louis’s hug is so tight it’s almost painful, and Michael thinks about telling him as much. Michael doesn’t. He presses himself even closer to Louis, desperate for the comfort of friendship that he knows he’s not going to have over the holidays. That he knows one day he’ll lose forever—sooner rather than later, probably—just like he’s lost everybody else in his life.

“Come to mine. Me mum won’t mind—she’s always glad for extra mouths to feed,” murmurs Louis into Michael’s ear. It’s more of a whine, really, and it tugs at Michael’s heart strings. Makes him want to say yes. “She’ll love you more than me by the end of the evening. Probably by the time we get off the platform. Please, come to mine. I don’t want you to be all alone on Christmas.”

It’s tempting. It really is, because Michael is faced with an endlessly lonely holiday break. He’s done well so far to keep himself together—if the definition of well can be stretched as far as void jumping in a frantic attempt to try to escape the awful reality of his life. Even now, though, Calum’s blank face is right there in the back of Michael’s eyelids, and he sees it every time he blinks. His heart, already bloodied and beaten, stings a little more with every reminder that he’s lost everything.

Michael shakes his head. It’s a hard feat to accomplish in Louis’s restrictive hold, but Louis gets the message anyway. So does Zayn, who steps up behind Michael and lays a comforting hand in the middle of Michael’s back. The touch isn’t much, but it’s a firm reminder of Zayn’s presence. Of his protection.

“What about mine? It’ll be crazy with, like, all of my sisters there, too—no more so than at Lou’s, I reckon—but it’ll be brilliant with you there.”

It’s even harder to say no the second time, but Michael supposes Zayn had known it would be. It’s true that Michael doesn’t want to spend the holidays all alone. He wants to say yes on that principle alone, but he doesn’t let himself. He’s a Clifford. Zayn’s family is a healthy mix of magic and muggle, so some wouldn’t even know there’s any significance to Michael’s blood, but others would. Michael doesn’t want Zayn to be treated badly for bringing somebody like _him_ home to his family.

“I can’t,” says Michael, and his words get tangled up in Louis’s jumper. 

“You can,” says Zayn. Louis hums his agreement. “My family will love you.”

Michael snorts, but it comes out all watery, because he’s still crying. He’s getting Louis’s jumper all gross. He’s snotting uncontrollably. Louis’s hug is still too tight to allow him to move, so his bogies have nowhere to go but all over Louis’s chest. It’s rather unappealing, even to Michael who is responsible for it all. Louis, however, doesn’t seem to care.

“My family doesn’t even love me,” murmurs Michael.

Louis gasps, and so does Zayn, and Michael feels his cheeks heat up. He hadn’t meant to say that out loud. It’s true, of course. His parents think he’s a disgrace to the Clifford name. His latest stunt of kissing the Minister’s son at the end of the summer is just the last in a long line of embarrassments he’s caused his parents. He’s pretty sure the only thing he’s ever done right in their eyes is getting sorted into Slytherin four and a half years ago.

“Bloody hell,” curses Louis. Somehow, he manages to tighten his arms around Michael even more. Michael winces against the hold, his face squashed uncomfortable into the mess of bogies he’s left on the front of Louis’s jumper. “Come to fucking Christmas with one of us. Dammit.”

But Michael can’t. He’s not able to tell them as much, not with his mouth crushed against Louis’s sternum like it is. They seem to sense his answer anyway in the way his body tenses. Michael can’t help it. He doesn’t know Louis’s or Zayn’s families, and he doesn’t think he can handle anybody else disliking him. He’s reached his quota for the time being. Forever, probably.

“Then I’ll stay,” declares Louis.

“We both will.”

Michael pushes against Louis so that he can speak again. It takes quite a bit of effort. Louis isn’t very willing to let him go, and even when he’s given Michael enough room to look him in the eye, he doesn’t give anything else.

“No,” says Michael. He can’t have Louis or Zayn miss out on seeing their families, not on account of him.  “You lot should go home, really. I, er—I’ll be fine.”

He would probably sound more convincing if not for the tears still trailing down his cheeks. Louis raises his eyebrows at Michael in disbelief. Zayn moves so that he, too, can look at Michael face-to-face, but his hand never leaves Michael’s back. Selfishly, Michael’s glad for the prolonged contact. It gives him the strength to keep talking. His voice is less wobbly this time.

“Hardly anybody else is going to stay at the castle, anyway. It’ll be nice to enjoy Christmas at Hogwarts. Everyone says it’s a magical experience. I think I might like that this year.”

It’s a total lie. Probably. It doesn’t really matter how beautiful the castle is at Christmastime. It doesn’t change the fact that Michael’s going to be spending it alone. He doesn’t want to let on to Zayn and Louis that he thinks that much, though. As much as he doesn’t want to be lonely, he doesn’t want to spoil their holidays more.

The truth is, he’s terrified that they’ll resent him if they stay at the castle with him instead of going home to their families. He doesn’t want them to hate him. Not so soon after he’s lost Calum and Luke and Ashton. Michael doesn’t think he can handle losing Zayn and Louis right now, too.

“You don’t have to put on a brave face,” says Louis.

“I’m not,” returns Michael, except that he totally is. He musters up his best smile to soothe their nerves. His lips quiver a little, because he’s still mostly crying, but he thinks he deserves credit for the attempt. “Please, don’t worry about me. Go home and enjoy the holidays with your families.”

“We’re going to worry about you anyway,”  says Louis.

He looks at Zayn then. They have a silent conversation of raised eyebrows that Michael doesn’t follow. It doesn’t matter. Zayn sighs, and Michael knows he has his victory. It feels just as hollow as he expected it would.

“All right. We’ll do as you wish,” relents Zayn.

“But if at any moment you want to get away from the castle, our doors are open,” says Loius. “Seriously, day or night. We don’t care, and our families won’t care. We just want you to be happy.”

Michael nods, but he knows he’s not going to take Louis up on his offer. Louis and Zayn probably know, too, judging by their pitying looks, but Michael appreciates that they don’t call him on his lie. He’s secretly not sure how many more times he could have told them no before he finally gave in to his heart’s desire to not be lonely. He’s glad they’re dropping the subject instead of pursuing it any farther, even if that means it’s going to be an endlessly lonely holiday break for Michael. He puts on a brave face for them and tries not to feel too sorry for himself.

 The air is chilly. It’s mid-December, after all, and the first snowflakes of the day begin to float down from the sky. Michael stares up at them, still numb against the cold. Louis and Zayn, however, are beginning to shiver. They should all head indoors. The train will leave in a couple of hours for Louis and Zayn, and Michael doubts either one of them have packed anything for the break.

They silently decide to head back into the castle. It’s mostly Louis’s decision. He steps back from Michael, breaking all contact between them, only to sling an arm around Michael’s shoulders and guide him where Louis wants him to go. Michael is pliant underneath Louis. The exertion of the past few hours is finally catching up to him. He’s exhausted from crying, and he’s never jumped through that many voids in one short period of time before. He wants nothing more than to pass out face-first in a bed somewhere, preferably the one in the sixth years’ boys’ dorm where he’s pretty much moved into.

When they arrive back to the common room, Michael’s extremities tingle as his body begins to warm up. He hadn’t felt the cold, not really, but he does feel the heat. He writes his name on the parchment with a trembling hand to declare that he’s staying at the castle. His handwriting is almost illegible, but he can’t bring himself to care. He’s staying, and that’s all that matters.

Louis and Zayn frog march Michael all the way to their dorm, and they push him onto his transfigured bed. They give him firm, yet welcomed, instructions that he’s not to return to his own dorm or to the nook in the library to sleep when they’re gone. He’s always welcomed in here. None of their actual roommates are staying over the holiday break, but one of them is in the dorm doing his last minute packing, and he echoes what Louis and Zayn says. Michael doesn’t have the energy to argue with them. He says a sleepy _thank you_ before loses himself to sleep.

When he wakes up, Louis and Zayn are gone. It’s late in the evening. The train left Hogsmeade Station hours ago. Michael feels a little bad that he slept through their departure, but there is a folded-up jumper at the foot of his bed. It’s the one Louis was wearing earlier, the one Michael had snotted all over. It’s clean now, though, and there’s a note attached to it that says _wear me_ , so Michael does.

For the first time in a long time, he takes off the jumper Calum had given him. He leaves it discarded right next to where Louis’s jumper had lain, and he wears the Slytherin one instead. It matches his awful hair color, but it smells like Louis and like Zayn, so he doesn’t mind it as much.

Staying at the castle over the break is just as lonely as Michael had expected. He spends most of his day cooped up in the six years’ boys’ dorm, leaving it only to skip up to the kitchens for a bite to eat. He can’t bring himself to enter the Great Hall. The memories of the awful banner that had brought about the end are too much for him, still, so he eats his meals with the house elves. They fawn all over him like they always do, and he feels a little less isolated in the franticness of the kitchens.

He visits the library a lot, hiding away in the nook in the back with as many books about hexes as he can get his hands on. He’s still not sure what spell Luke had used on his hair, and he’s determined to find out. He can’t stand the hideous color, how it makes students sneer at him in the corridors. None of the books provide him with the answer he needs, but he keeps looking. Newt-the-hedgehog snoozes away on the windowsill to keep him company. Outside, it snows almost continuously like it always does at this time of year, and Michael makes sure to drag himself back to the Slytherin dorm at curfew every night so that he won’t end up breaking his promise to Louis and Zayn.

On Christmas morning, he wakes up to a small pile of presents at the foot of his bed. He’s at once surprised and guilty. He hadn’t gotten anybody anything. He’s never had anybody to get a present for in past years, and nobody from Hogwarts has ever gotten him one, either. He hadn’t expected this year to be any different, but it is. It’s nice to wake up to the small pile.

He stares at the presents from a distance at the head of his bed for a few minutes, basking in their existence. He can’t help the large grin that spreads across his lips, and somewhere deep inside his mind, he knows it’s the first time he’s smiled since he realized, in the Hufflepuff common room, that he meant absolutely nothing to Calum. He tries not to think about Calum as a general habit now. Calum’s words still hurt Michael right to his core. It’s not fair that Michael can mean so little to Calum but Calum still has this much power to hurt him.

Michael pushes aside all thoughts of Calum before he can get too caught up in them, and he scoots down on his bed to open his presents. He feels all warm and giddy, excited like a child. He works through each of the presents with care, the grin on his face widening with each successive present. The first one is from Harry. It’s a nice quill and ink set that has a color changing pot of ink meant to make editing essays easier. The second present, a box of Bertie Bott’s Every Flavour Beans, is from Niall, and Liam was nice enough to send him a pair of dragon skin gloves that have a permanent warming charm on them.

The largest present is collectively from Louis and Zayn, and Michael tears at the paper with shaky hands, eagerness churning in his stomach. It’s a book, an old one at that, entitled _Advanced Spells: What you don’t Learn in School_. It’s thick with hundreds, if not thousands, of brand new spells Michael’s never stumbled across in all of the books in the library. He’s enthralled from the first few pages alone. Most of the spells look like they’ll take him ages to learn, but he’s so excited to master them. Louis and Zayn must have known he’d want something to do with all of his time alone over the break.

Michael loves these people—Louis and Zayn and even Niall and Harry and Liam. He loves that they’ve gone out of their way to be so kind to him. Loves that they thought enough of him to make this Christmas the best yet. He makes a mental note to head up to the kitchens and ask the house elves nicely to make some pies for him to send to Louis and Zayn and everybody else.

For now, though, he wants to try his hand at a spell or two from the spellbook. He sets all of his presents carefully down on the bedside cabinet next to him. He purposefully leaves out the jelly beans so that he can munch on them while he reads. When he goes to clear away all of the paper, he discovers there’s one present left.          

It’s tiny and box-shaped, wrapped in paper that’s covered in snowflakes and quaffles. There isn’t a note attached to the outside or any other indication of who the sender might be. Michael doesn’t know how much he trusts it, but he’s curious. He uses his wand just to be safe. He hovers it in midair and opens it, his movements precise in case it’s a trick.

It’s not a trick, but Michael’s not sure at first glance what the present is. It’s a tiny, rectangular item made out of metal. It looks muggle-ish, like something that purebloods like Michael’s parents would never, ever touch. It looks harmless enough, so he lets it fall gently to his bed. There’s piece of yellow sticky paper attached to the back of it. Michael peels it off and reads the words _Tap it with your wand. I hope you like it. Happy Christmas!_

Michael does as asked, and the tiny item comes to life, blaring music he’s never before heard. It sounds like wizard’s rock, sort of, but there’s a heavy drum beat and sick guitar rips, and Michael falls instantly in love. He looks at the foreign object a little closer. There’s an emblem illuminated on the front of it. It looks familiar, and it takes him a moment to place it. When he does, he drops the foreign, music-playing item back to the bed. It’s the same emblem that was on the front of Ashton’s t-shirt that Michael had borrowed that night he’d spent in Gryffindor Tower.

Michael glances back at the yellow sticky note. The handwriting is doubtlessly Ashton’s now that Michael’s made the connection, and at the very bottom, written much smaller than everything else, are the words _P.S. I’m sorry_. 


	12. Chapter 12

The first time Michael sees Ashton after Christmas is three days into the new term. It’s the first class of Care of Magical Creatures of the new year. It’s freezing cold outside, and Michael’s wearing the Slytherin jumper Louis had given him underneath his robes. He’s got a warming spell cast on his entire body, but he still shivers against the January wind. He’s thankful for the dragon skin gloves Liam had given him for Christmas and makes a mental note to thank him for them once again.

Professor Hagrid, carrying a bucket of raw meat, corrals the class into the forest with nothing more than a command to follow him. Michael does, along with his classmates. The landscape is covered in snow that’s been packed down by the herds of various creatures who call the Forbidden Forest their home. Michael walks a slippery path with the others, careful of his footing across the uneven terrain. Professor Hagrid eventually comes to a stop in front of a clearing. Michael stands off from the others. He notices that Ashton does, too.

“T’day, we’re learnin’ about these beauties,” says Professor Hagrid. He sets down the bucket on the snow-covered ground, and he uses his recently-freed hand to gesture at the clearing. There’s nothing here as far as Michael can see. Professor Hagrid seems to believe otherwise “Can anyone tell me what these are?”

There’s a buzz of indistinguishable chatter amongst Michael’s classmates, but nobody offers Professor Hagrid an answer. Perhaps everybody else is in the same boat as Michael, who still isn’t sure exactly what it is Professor Hagrid is gesturing to. There’s nothing on the ground in the clearing, and there’s nothing in the trees, either.

“N’body?” prompts Professor Hagrid again.

“Thestrals,” says Ashton, softly. He inadvertently quiets his classmates, and they all turn to him. He doesn’t pay them any attention. His gaze is locked on the empty space of the clearing like there’s actually something there. “They pull the carriages.”

“Ah, ‘m sorry ya know that,” says Professor Hagrid, and he genuinely does sound sorry. He awards Ashton points for knowing the correct answer, nonetheless. He is interrupted before he can continue the lesson.

“Wait—the carriages pull _themselves_. Everyone knows that,” says a nameless Gryffindor, a girl who sneers in Ashton’s direction. Michael thinks it might be the same girl who had impolitely told him that he wasn’t welcomed at the Gryffindor table a few weeks ago, the very same one Ashton had spilled a goblet of pumpkin all over.

“Only those who’ve seen death can see Thestrals,” says Professor Hagrid. His sympathy for Ashton makes more sense now, and it ripples amongst the students. Professor Hagrid doesn’t allow for any more comments on the subject. He hoists the bucket of raw meat. “’M glad ye have volunteerd ta feed ‘em first, Miss Smith. C’mon up. Don’t be shy.”

As it turns out, the Gryffindor is shy. It’s a little terrifying to have to work with something one can’t see, so Ashton, ever the humanitarian, takes pity on her. He steps up to Professor Hagrid. He takes a slab of meat as instructed, and he slowly walks into the clearing. He holds the meat out at arm’s length, standing stock-still as an invisible creature approaches him. Michael can only see part of Ashton’s face right now, but he sees the firm set of determination in his jaw.

A moment later, the meat disappears midair. Ashton snatches his hand back, surprised even though he’d seen the creature take it from him. He glances uncertainly over his shoulder at Professor Hagrid, but he’s nudged by an invisible snout. He stumbles a little. Michael’s hand automatically goes for his wand—it’s pathetic, really, how second-natured it is that Michael still feels the need to protect Ashton—but it’s needless. The Thestral nudges Ashton again, and Ashton giggles, reaching out to pet the invisible beast.

“Hungry fellows, they are,” says Professor Hagrid. He awards Ashton another ten points for his bravery. He goes on to instruct the rest of the class to spread food out across the clearing for the Thestrals before releasing everyone to their assignment.

They’re to pair up, but Michael doesn’t have any friends. That’s nothing new, really. This isn’t like Potions or Charms or the other core classes that have integrated the houses, so there are only an equal number of Gryffindors and Slytherins. None of the other Slytherins want to work with him, and the other house doesn’t, either. Michael stands all alone at the edge of the clearing, waiting for the odd man out who will, by luck of the draw, have to work with him.

There is a nudge to the back of Michael’s shoulder. He jumps, startled, and whips around to find there’s nothing there. Or, rather, there’s nothing that he can see. His fingers itch for his wand, but he knows better than to draw it in the presence of beasts. He is nudged again, this time against his elbow.

“I think, maybe, he smells Newt?” suggests Ashton, shyly, appearing out of nowhere.

He has a slab of meat in his hand, and he tosses it on the ground a few meters away. There’s a rustling noise of hooves against the forest floor. Fresh tracks appear across the already disturbed snow. Michael’s gaze follows the sound. He watches as the meat disappears into nothingness, fascinated by the creature he can’t see. Ashton glances hesitantly at Michael.

“They’re carnivorous creatures, so maybe that one likes the smell of hedgehogs?”

Hastily, Michael pats the pocket of his robes in which Newt is snoozing away to make sure the hedgehog is still there. He disturbs the tiny creature, who wiggles around in an attempt to evade Michael’s large hand. Michael feels bad, so he drops his hand to his side. Visible or no, he won’t let the Thestrals eat the only living creature who has kept him company over the lonely school holiday. 

“I’m sorry,” says Ashton. He sounds so sincere that Michael’s eyes immediately snap to his. Ashton chews uncertainly on his bottom lip. “About everything. I don’t—I don’t expect anything from you, but I can’t not tell you how sorry I am.”

It’s a pitiful sight. Ashton is normally so full of life and energy and happiness that it’s almost hard to equate him with the downtrodden, shy, and sorrowful person he is right now. It tugs at Michael’s heartstrings, because he hates this look on Ashton. He hates the frown that’s marring Ashton’s face, even after everything that’s happened between them.

This is the apology that Michael’s been waiting for. The admission that these people who were supposed to stick by him no matter what had failed in their promise to him. Ashton’s offering it to Michael right now, and Michael should be jumping for joy. Should be throwing his arms around Ashton and assuring him that everything is okay now. That Michael understands.

But it’s too late.

Michael is hurt, and he’s bitter, and he’s still lonely. Louis and Zayn are great—and they haven’t left him alone since they arrived back at the castle—but there’s a large part of Michael that feels overwhelmingly lonely still. It’s an ache he can’t cure. An itch he can’t scratch.

“You didn’t stand up for me,” says Michael. He’s amazed at his own ability to sound so emotionless when he really wants to cry now that he’s finally admitted this out loud. That’s the thing that hurts the most a month later. The fact that nobody believed in him. The fact that Calum and Luke and Ashton had promised him friendship, but they hadn’t really stood by their promise. “That day in the Hufflepuff common room when Louis tried to tell you all what had happened—that _I didn’t do it_ —that I would never hurt you or Luke or Calum. You didn’t stand up for me. Luke was mean, and so was Calum, and you didn’t say anything.”

Ashton flinches, and Michael knows his words have hit a nerve. He doesn’t care. He’s hurt, and Ashton is offering an apology, but it’s not enough. Michael wishes it were. He wishes it really were that simple—to just let Ashton’s words fill the emptiness inside of Michael’s chest. It’s not.

Michael is used to being treated like rubbish. He’s used to people hating him on the basis of his family name alone or even just because he’s a Slytherin. He’s not so used to people promising him friendship—swearing by that friendship—and then turning around and throwing it back in his face. Typically, nobody even wants to offer Michael that much in the first place. But Calum had, and so had Luke and Ashton, and it had hurt ten thousand times worse when they had treated him like they swore they wouldn’t. Like everybody else does anyway. Like he were less than the dirt on the bottom of their shoes.

“I didn’t want to believe it was you,” says Ashton quietly. He fidgets like he wants to drop Michael’s gaze, but he doesn’t. He holds it strong, brave like a true Gryffindor. Like he thinks Michael deserves to be looked in the eye for this. “But the banner, it was—Cal said you two hadn’t finished it, that you wanted it to be a surprise—but I couldn’t believe you’d want _that_ to be the surprise.”

“Then why did you?”

“I didn’t know who else to blame!” shrieks Ashton, his voice echoing up into the trees.

The forest probably isn’t the best place to be having this conversation, especially not right in the middle of Care of Magical Creatures, but nobody is paying them any mind. They’re all too fascinated with the invisible Thestrals to care about this conversation between a Slytherin and a Gryffindor.

“Don’t you get it, Mikey? I was outed—to the _entire school_ —and so was Luke, and—and people were so mean. They—they called Luke and me bad names, and someone tried to hex Luke—tried to make him—to make him...”

Ashton chokes on his own words, eyes wide in panic as if he’s reliving the atrocity he can’t even speak. Michael’s stomach hits the ground. He wants so badly to gather Ashton up in his arms and calm him down. Swear to him that he won’t let anybody hurt him or Luke. It’s stupid, really, to want this, because Michael is still hurt himself, and Luke doesn’t like him. Michael, though, has never been smart when it comes to Ashton or to Luke or to Calum.

“Calum got there first and blasted the bloke back before he really did anything,” says Ashton once he’s caught his breath again. He doesn’t try to finish his last sentence, and Michael’s glad for it. He pushes on ahead. “It was—it was chaos, and it didn’t make sense why you would do that. Because you—you _couldn’t_ do that to me. Or to Luke. But, _Merlin_ , you said—you said you were making a banner for the game, and you sent Calum away, and it was all too perfect in the end. It had to be you. There was no other... Nobody else can work magic like you can, Mikey.”

“But it wasn’t me,” is all that Michael can say. His voice is tiny. He, too, feels small, slouching his shoulders down. He didn’t know any of this. He had never considered what had happened that morning before he’d dragged himself out of the Slytherin dungeon. He feels faintly nauseated at the idea that Ashton or Calum or Luke could have ever thought he would be so horrible as cause something like this.

“I know,” says Ashton, eyes big and sincere and brimming with tears.

“No,” says Michael. He reaches into his pocket, careful not to jostle Newt, and draws out a tiny scarlet and gold piece of fabric. “I don’t think you do.”

He thrusts the fabric into Ashton’s hand, and he taps it with the end of his wand, enlarging it. Ashton gasps, spreading it out wide until he can see the majority of the banner. It’s worn in places now where it wasn’t a month ago when it was brand new. That is only to be expected. Michael has carried it everywhere with him since that awful day. The edges of the folds are a little ragged, even stretched out. The artwork is still there, Ashton’s face bright and carefree underneath the lion’s hat. The charm on the words _Go Gryffindor!_ is slightly wonky now, some of the letters no longer protruding out from the fabric. It’s frayed, but the glory of what it once was is still visible.

It’s nowhere near the quality of the masterpiece Michael had intended to present to Ashton all that time ago, but Ashton looks up at him all starry-eyed anyway. It tugs at Michael’s heart, because this is the exact reaction he’d wanted all along: Ashton’s amazement. But Michael only feels the ghost of elation. 

“ _Fuck_ , _Michael_.”

“I didn’t do it,” says Michael, quietly. He feels like a broken record. He’s said this too much, first to Luke then to Louis and Zayn and now to Ashton. He’s tired to telling people that he didn’t. He’s tired of having to in the first place.

“You didn’t do it,” repeats Ashton, voice thin. His hands are trembling now, evident by the ripples traveling down the banner. He sways a little on his feet, like his knees are threatening to give out underneath him. His face looks a little green. “ _Godric_ , Michael, you didn’t do it. How—how—how could we be that stupid? Fuck. Fuck. _Mikey_.”

Ashton throws himself at Michael with no warning, and he wraps his arms around him, squeezing so tightly that Michael can scarcely breathe. He still has the banner clutched in one hand. It hangs over Michael’s back like a second robe. Ashton sobs big and loud right into Michael’s ear, and Michael stands frozen.

“Fuck, Mikey,” gasps Ashton, because apparently he’s incapable of saying anything else. He doesn’t seem to mind that they’re still in the middle of class and that there is a herd of invisible Thestrals roaming the clearing. He doesn’t seem to care about anything that’s not Michael, and that’s a glorious feeling in itself.

It’s everything Michael’s missed over the past month, Ashton’s embrace. It’s friendship. It’s protection. It’s love. Michael doesn’t quite know what to do with it. A part of him is still bitter that Ashton and Luke and Calum had thought so badly of him in the first place. That they had turned their backs on him instead of listening to him. He has a right to be angry. They hurt him. They basically destroyed him.

He should be pushing Ashton back right now. It shouldn’t be so easy for Ashton to just barrel in with his apologies and his hugs and expect Michael to be all right again. Michael hasn’t been fine since that awful day everything went wrong and neither Calum nor Luke heard him out or even gave him the benefit of the doubt. This—Ashton sobbing his apologies into Michael’s ear—isn’t going to erase all of the pain that Michael’s felt watching his world fall apart right before his very own eyes and being unable to do anything to stop it.

But Michael is weak. All he’s wanted for so, so long is this: the comforting embrace of a friend. It’s even better that it’s from Ashton, because Ashton has this ability to make all of the bad things in the world seem not-so-bad anymore. Michael can count on one hand the number of things he has going for him right now and still have a couple of fingers free. But Ashton… Ashton makes him feel like nothing bad can touch him.

So, no. It shouldn’t be this easy, but it is. Michael is so, so tired of being lonely. For the first time in a month, he doesn’t feel quite so isolated. Louis and Zayn and their group of friends are great. They are, and Michael could never, ever repay them for their kindness, but they’re not Ashton. Michael doesn’t really understand why that’s true—why he is so easy for Ashton when he really should not be—but he hasn’t felt this… _whole_ since the night he taught Ashton and the others how to jump through the voids. Since the night before everything in Michael’s life went up in flames.

“I’m sorry, Mikey. I’m so fucking sorry,” sobs Ashton. His lips are wet against Michael’s neck. The cold chases after them, but Ashton is locked around Michael, and he’s not letting go. “You—you must hate us. Please, don’t hate us.”

Michael draws in a ragged breath. He’s shaking all over. He knows Ashton can feel that he is. He can’t help it. His heart is shattering in his chest all over again, right here in the middle of the Forbidden Forest.

“That’s not fair,” he says, voice rough.

It’s true that it’s not fair. Ashton and Calum and Luke hurt Michael so, so badly. Michael has every right to hate them. He should hate them. Nobody has been as cruel to him as they have been—not even four years ago when Michael’s own housemates made it their mission in life to isolate him from everybody else. No one has been as mean to Michael, because nobody has ever meant so much to him as Ashton, Luke, and Calum do. So, it’s not fair that Ashton is pleading this from Michael.

“Please, don’t hate us, Mikey. _Please_.”

Michael’s not sure his heart can take it, the absolutely raw tremor to Ashton’s voice. It’s one thing for Michael to tell himself that he should hate them. It’s another thing altogether to actually do it. His words is ripped from his throat, unfiltered and sincere.

“Fuck, Ash. I—I _don’t_. Bloody hell. I—I _can’t_.”

 That’s all it takes, really, for him to fall apart, but that’s all right. Ashton is here to catch him. All of the fight leaves Michael, taking all of the anger and bitterness and hurt with it. The only thing that’s left is Michael, vulnerable and shivering in Ashton’s arms. For the first time in a long time, the empty space in Michael’s chest doesn’t feel empty at all.


	13. Chapter 13

Ashton is like a second skin. He sticks close by Michael’s side through the rest of the Care of Magical Creatures lesson. Afterwards, he walks back to the castle shoulder-to-shoulder with Michael and all the way down to the Slytherin dungeon, head held high with the bravery of a true Gryffindor.

Michael doesn’t quite know what to do with himself. He feels raw. Bared. Vulnerable. There’s a part of him that is still bitter about everything that has happened. That is still angry that neither Calum nor Luke nor Ashton bothered to learn the truth about the banner from the very beginning. That is still hurt by Luke’s brash treatment and Calum’s harsh words.

The thing is, no matter how nice Ashton is to Michael, he can’t make up for all of the bad things that have happened. No amount of present niceties—not even an infinite number of apologies—can truly erase the horrors that have befallen Michael over the past few weeks. It’s hard enough dealing with the hatred of people who mean nothing to him, but coping with the hatred of Luke and Calum, who had been kind enough to extend their friendship to Michael, is the most difficult thing in the entire world.

Ashton doesn’t understand. Michael doesn’t know how to explain it, either, so he says nothing. He ignores the tiny voice in his head that’s screaming at him to not trust Ashton, because Ashton hurt him, too, and Michael shouldn’t be so easy for him. He ignores it, because he’s so lonely, and Ashton fills the emptiness in Michael’s chest.

It’s not perfect, but it is something, and Michael is desperate for whatever he can get.

He doesn’t question why Ashton follows him to the Slytherin dungeon. Ashton chats happily about anything and everything—about seeing his siblings over the holiday break and about the new beater’s bat he’s dying to try out and about anything that seems like a safe topic between them. Michael listens, soothed by the familiar kindness shining in Ashton’s voice.

His heart twists whenever Ashton mentions how nice it was to be back home with his family, and Michael thinks about how his own family didn’t even want him to see him for Christmas. His sadness must show on his face. Ashton picks up on it instantly, and he stops mid-sentence in his retelling of Christmas pudding with his loved ones and changes the subject to muggle rock music instead like it is the most natural transition in the world.

When they arrive in front of the entrance to the Slytherin common room, Michael almost expects Ashton to leave. He doesn’t. Michael doesn’t particularly mind the company. He actually really, really likes it, starved as he is for the friendliness that Ashton exudes. He doesn’t ask the pressing question on his mind— _why are you being nice to me?_ —and instead gives the password to enter the common room.

Michael steps inside. Ashton follows, not missing a beat, and he keeps waxing poetically to this muggle band he swears Michael will absolutely love. Michael has listened to every single song on the muggle music device Ashton gifted to him a thousand times, it seems, so he trusts Ashton’s word. Ashton has great taste in music, after all.

“Woah. Woah. Woah. What the hell is he doing?” demands Louis the moment Michael and Ashton step far enough into the large, open part of the common room.

Louis’s voice is loud in indignation, but there’s hardly anybody in here to be mad about the disruption. He jumps to his feet, his hand going immediately for his wand like it always does when he’s face-to-face with somebody who is being mean to Michael. He crosses the room in a handful of measured strides. Zayn, still seated at the table Louis vacated, eyes Ashton warily. He makes no move to subdue Louis, and it’s this complacency that clues Michael in that Zayn, too, wants to know the answer to Louis’s question.

“Hello, Louis, Zayn,” says Ashton, cheerily, as if he’s not faced with the absolute terror Louis Tomlinson can be. He tries for a blinding smile, also, but it falls a little short on his lips. The fingers of his right hand twitch above the pocket where his wand is stowed away. It’s the only indication that he’s the slightest bit nervous. “I, er, apologized to Mikey and thought he might like some company after class.”

“He’s got company,” snaps Louis. His wand is pointed directly at Ashton’s chest, and the sneer on his face in unfriendly. He looks dangerous—as dangerous as the green and silver colors on his tie suggest he actually is. “Zayn and me, we haven’t fucked off on him like you have. What the hell makes you think you can just strut back into his life with your conceited, I’m-infallible-because-I’m-a-Gryffindor attitude? Do you really think an apology is going to make up for everything?”

The smile slips from Ashton’s lips. He stands a little straighter, drawing himself up to full height. He towers over Louis, but Louis doesn’t look scared. Michael doesn’t think Louis has ever felt intimidated in his life.

“That’s Michael’s decision to make, isn’t it? To forgive me or not?” challenges Ashton.

Louis scoffs.

“You fucked him up,” says Zayn, appearing next to Louis. He has apparently decided the turn of events demands his presence. He stands shoulder-to-shoulder with Louis, strong as brothers. He’s always had Louis’s back. This time is no different. “Michael is too nice to tell you to fuck off.”

“It sounds like you don’t trust him,” says Ashton.

“Don’t you play that bloody card with us,” snaps Louis. His fingers tighten around his wand, and he looks like he’s half of a second away from actually using it. Still, Zayn makes no move to calm him. “It’s you lot we don’t trust. You’re the fucking bastard who left him to the bloody wolves. How do we know you won’t do it again?”

“Because I won’t. I couldn’t do that to Michael.”

“Really? Because you already have once. You turned your damn back on him when he needed you the most! He didn’t bloody have anybody else!”

“It’s fine, really,” says Michael. Louis’s words wash over him, a thin skin of humiliation. They’re true, but he doesn’t want Ashton to know as much. “He apologized. I mean, that’s—”

“Don’t you fucking say _enough_ ,” interrupts Louis, cold and outraged on the behalf of Michael. There’s a tinge of pain to his voice. He continues to look at Ashton like Ashton’s the epitome of all things bad.  

Michael shrinks back, chastised. He doesn’t like the disappointment saturating Louis’s words. Louis sighs. He runs a hand through his hair and shoots Michael an apologetic look, chewing on his bottom lip. He looks torn, caught halfway between angry at Ashton for being so mean in the past and disappointed in Michael for being so easy for Ashton.

“Look, you don’t understand, Irwin,” says Zayn when Louis proves that he’s not sure which emotion is going to win him over in the end. He, too, shoots Michael an apologetic glance. “Michael wasn’t—he wasn’t in a good place. He’s still not in a good place.”

Michael’s face flushes darker, humiliation settling deeper into his bones. He shifts away from Ashton. He wishes Zayn would shut up—that he and Louis would both just leave him alone. He has Ashton’s apology, and, no, it’s not ideal, but it’s something. He can live with something for just a little while, until maybe something can lead to _everything_.

“And nothing that you can say can make it any better,” adds Louis. “Don’t you get it? You and Calum and Luke were downright bastards, and you didn’t believe Michael when he tried to tell you that he didn’t have anything to do with that stupid banner. Hell, you didn’t even let him explain.”

“He did explain,” says Ashton, voice cold. His hand is still hovering above his wand, and his eyes are glued to the tip of Louis’s that is still pointed straight at him.

“A little too late, isn’t it?” retorts Zayn. “You waited a fucking month to listen to him.”

“I’m _sorry_ , okay?” shrieks Ashton. It’s a provoked response, but he throws his entire being into it nonetheless. He looks from Zayn to Louis and back again, eyes wide with sincerity. “I was scared and hurt, and so was Luke and Calum—and—and it’s no excuse, but I’m fucking sorry anyhow.”

Louis blinks, unimpressed. He opens his mouth to speak, probably to tear into Ashton some more, but he’s not given a chance. Ashton isn’t finished with his part yet, and he has to get it out there for Louis and Zayn and, most importantly, Michael to hear.

“The thing is, Michael is the most amazing person I’ve ever met. He’s kind and loyal and supportive. He saved Calum’s life, and he saved me, too. Fuck. He’s probably the best friend I’ve ever had. I threw him away, because I was an idiot. A proper wanker. I don’t—I don’t deserve his forgiveness. I was awful to him. We all were.  And, no, I shouldn’t have asked for him to forgive me—I should have let him continue to hate me, because that’s what I deserve—but I was selfish. People like Michael, they’re once-in-a-lifetime friends. I was just too stupid to realize that before it was too late.”

Michael’s mind whirls around like a muggle merry-go-round. He stares at Ashton, and Ashton turns to meets his gaze. The sincerity is there in Ashton’s eyes. It never left. It’s almost too intense for Michael to look at, but he can’t turn away. His heart is pounding in his ears. Nobody has ever said that about him. No one has ever been kind enough to tell him that he’s a once-in-a-lifetime type of person. Perhaps nobody has ever before thought that he was.

“Yeah, you were,” says Louis, voice flat.

“I’m sorry, Michael,” says Ashton. He turns his back entirely on Louis and Zayn, no longer concerned with the wand pointed at him or with his own weapon stowed away in his pocket. He purposefully makes himself vulnerable to whatever it is that Louis or Zayn wants to do, and he does it so that he can stand face-to-face with Michael. Barely inches separate them. It’s the attention Michael deserves. “You were a good friend to me, but I wasn’t to you. I should have been. You didn’t deserve how we treated you, because you’re worth more than you even know. You matter so fucking much—you’re the fucking world—and I was too stupid to realize it until it was too late.”

Calum’s harsh words from a month ago echo in Michael’s mind _what does it matter?_ Michael winces. He has thought about this question a lot since it fell so carelessly from Calum’s mouth. He’s tried to tell himself that he does, in fact, matter, but he doesn’t quite believe that he does. It’s hard to believe that when the very same voice in his mind reminds him that he was selfish enough to let Luke and Ashton get hurt.

In the end, he matters less than his friends, and that’s why he lost them.

But here is Ashton telling him differently. Telling him what he’s tried so hard to believe himself—telling him that he does matter. Michael wants so badly to believe Ashton, because Ashton doesn’t seem like he’s lying. His eyes are still brimming with sincerity. Michael’s never known Ashton to lie. He honestly questions Ashton’s ability _to_ lie, so it’s all too tempting to believe what Ashton’s saying. To believe that maybe Calum was wrong. That maybe the voice in Michael’s head was right all along. Maybe he does matter.

“I want to be your best friend,” says Ashton. His eyes are starting to water, but he’s not ashamed. Michael doesn’t think Ashton has ever been ashamed of anything. “I want to spend the rest of forever asking you to forgive me. I know you said you do, but, fuck, I don’t deserve your forgiveness that easily. You’re _too good_ , Mikey, and I don’t think you even realize it.”

“Ash—” begins Michael, but he doesn’t really know what to say. His heart feels too big for his chest. It’s almost hard to breathe. He reaches out and grabs Ashton, his hands around Ashton’s wrists, to physically anchor himself to this moment so that it won’t slip away and turn out to be nothing more than a dream. He knows it’s reality, though. He’s not self-destructive enough to try to dream up something this hopeful.

“There’s something I want to do,” says Ashton, voice urgent. He slips one hand into Michael’s and frees the other. He starts for the common room entrance again, but he stops at the last minute. “Only if you’ll let me. Do you trust me?”

“Yes,” says Michael, immediately. The tiny voice in the back of his head is screaming at him that he shouldn’t, but he pushes it aside. “What are you doing?”

“Making things right.”

Ashton tugs him toward the common room entrance again. Michael’s stomach churns uneasily at Ashton’s words. He flashes back to the time Louis had purposefully stalked out of this very same dungeon on a quest to put the tattered pieces of Michael’s life back together. That hadn’t ended well, and Michael thinks about retracting his answer to Ashton’s question now. He doesn’t. His hand is in Ashton, and he trusts Ashton with his entire being. He thinks he’d even follow Ashton right into the depths of hell right now if Ashton so led him.

“Oi!” calls Louis after them. “I’m not done with you, Irwin!”

But Ashton doesn’t bother with Louis. He doesn’t even let on as if he’s heard him, so intent on his mission that he doesn’t falter in his step as Louis continues to yell after him. Michael glances over his shoulder as he trails along. His last glimpse of the common room is of Louis, red-faced with his hand around his wand, and Zayn with his arms folded across his chest. Then the door swings shut.

Ashton’s pace is rushed but steady. Michael manages to keep up without really trying too hard. Their footfalls echo in the corridors, and they sound like the long stretch of a drum solo in the middle of Michael’s favorite song. Ashton is quiet during their trek, so Michael is, too. Truthfully, Michael doesn’t know what to say. That’s okay. He doesn’t need to fill the silence between them. Neither of them do.

They walk a familiar route of corridors until Ashton stops right in front of a stack of barrels. Michael’s stomach hits the floor. A cold sweat breaks out all over his body. He wants to tug his hand out of Ashton’s grip, no longer confident in Ashton’s leadership, but Ashton is firm. Ashton shoots him a soothing smile as he taps a particular barrel in a familiar pattern. The smile does nothing to quell the hurricane that’s risen up in Michael’s chest. It’s hard to breathe again, but this time, it’s for an entirely different reason.

This is where it all ended—where Michael had stood and let Calum’s harsh words wash over him until he became nothing—and this is where Ashton is bringing him back to.

The Hufflepuff basement is exactly how Michael remembers it. It’s bright and yellow and cheerful. It’s a stark contrast to the storm of darkness raging in Michael’s chest. Ashton pulls Michael along after him, and he rubs comforting circles on the back of Michael’s hand with his thumb as Michael stumbles his way through the common room all the way down into the tunnels that presumably lead to the dormitories.

It’s obvious that Ashton is familiar with these tunnels. He’s probably traveled them hundreds of times over the past four and a half years to visit Calum. He takes a sudden right when Michael’s not expecting it. Michael nearly trips over his own feet, but Ashton is there to steady him. Ashton mutters an apology that Michael doesn’t have time to respond to before Ashton barges through the nearest door.

It turns out to be the fifth year boys’ dorm, not that Michael had anticipated any differently. The room itself is cozy and warm. It’s a far cry from the prestige and coldness of the Slytherin dorms that Michael is used to. A copper lamp hangs right in the middle like a bright sun, bathing everything in bright light. The beds are tucked into alcoves in the circular wall, like tiny personal tunnels, and they’re framed by large yellow privacy curtains.

Only one set of curtains currently hang open.  The bed itself is covered with a heavy black and yellow patchwork quilt. At the head of it, almost hidden by part of a curtain, sits Calum. Luke sits with his back to the wall. He grins a greeting at Ashton, but the smile disappears instantly whenever he spots Michael, too. Luke jumps to his feet, his hand already going for his wand.

“What the hell is he doing here?”

Ashton steps in front of Michael, protecting him from Luke with his body. It’s almost comical how similar Luke looks now to how Louis had looked only moments prior. Ashton hadn’t backed down in the face of the terror that is Louis Tomlinson, and he certainly isn’t afraid of Luke.

“You might want to sit down, Lukey,” says Ashton gently. “I’m afraid we’ve been wrong. Very, very wrong.”

Luke doesn’t sit. He shuffles his feet like he wants to instantly obey Ashton’s request, but in the end, he only lowers his wand so that he’s no longer poised to attack his best friend. He shoots a glare at Michael over Ashton’s shoulder.

“I still don’t understand why _he_ is here.”

Ashton sighs. He reaches into his pocket and pulls out a tiny, folded-up piece of fabric. He takes two steps forward to hand it to Luke. His grip around Michael’s wrist never ceases, so Michael is forced to move closer to the hostility. Michael closes his eyes to gauge the magic of Hogwarts. He feels the familiar tickle of it. It’s friendly to him, wrapped around him like an invisible, full-bodied suit of armor. If he wanted to, he could jump right now to safety.

He doesn’t. Part of him, yes, wants to run. But the bigger part of him—the part of him that trusts Ashton even after everything that has happened—wants to see this to the end. He thinks, maybe, he owes this much to himself.

“Michael is here, because he didn’t do it, Luke. He didn’t make that banner and hang it in the Great Hall. He made this one.”

It’s like watching history repeat itself, only this time it’s Ashton who resizes the banner and not Michael himself. The banner grows back to its original form in Luke’s palm. It’s a stark scarlet and gold against the yellow and black of the room. Luke gasps almost immediately, glancing up at Ashton with big, uncertain eyes before returning his gaze to the banner. He reaches for the other corner so that he can stretch the banner out to see it properly. He stares at it as his hands begin to tremble and his eyes begin to redden. He whispers one word.

“ _Fuck_.”

Calum crawls forward on his bed to see the banner better, spurred on by Luke’s response to it. He takes one good look at it—at the _Go Gryffindor!_ that is partially stuck to the material—and he lets out a whimper. For the first time since he entered the room, Michael dares to glance at Calum. His heart instantly skips a beat. Calum is already staring straight at him, his mouth gaping open. There is an expression of horror written plain across his face. Something warm twinkles in his eyes.

For a moment, time hangs suspended. Michael’s breath catches in his throat. This is all too much to handle at once. He wants to reach for the voids—he wants to be far, far away from here—but he doesn’t move. He can’t. Because Calum hasn’t looked at him like this—like Michael is something precious—in so long that Michael is frozen in place.

Michael doesn’t really know what to do, but that’s okay. Calum does. He launches himself off his bed and throws himself at Michael. He wraps his arms around Michael, and he holds on for dear life.

“I’m sorry, Mikey.”


	14. Chapter 14

Calum’s hug is everything Michael remembers it was and then some. It’s lovely and warm, and Michael hasn’t felt so… complete in a long, long time. Calum is wrapped tightly around Michael, his face smashed into the crook of Michael’s neck. His breath is hot against Michael’s skin. He keeps saying “ _I’m sorry, Mikey. I’m so sorry_.” over and over and over again until the words bleed into Michael’s soul. 

Michael, for his part, stands stock-still. He doesn’t know what to do with his arms. He thinks that maybe he wants to hug Calum back. It feels so good to be wrapped in Calum that Michael wants to soak up all that he can from this moment. He wants to relish in Calum’s arms, because he’s been starved for this for so long.

But there is a tiny voice in the back of his mind that is screaming at him to push Calum away. That it’s too late for hugs and apologies. The thing is—the true slap-in-the-face is—Calum and Luke are so easily trusting of Ashton’s word that Michael didn’t do have anything to do with the banner when they didn’t even give Michael the opportunity to prove it himself. That hurts a lot.

In the end, Michael doesn’t have to decide whether or not to return the hug. Calum takes a step back to put space between the two of them. He has to loosen his hold to do so, but he doesn’t completely let go. He moves his hands to Michael’s hips like he can’t bear the idea of not touching him. He meets Michael’s gaze, his own eyes reddened with tears. His eyebrows are furrowed. A troubled expression settles onto his face, and he chews on his bottom lip.

“I fucked up,” he says. His voice is a wreck, and he lets out a sob that sounds like it was ripped from his throat. “ _Merlin_ , Michael. We all fucked up. How can you—what are you doing here? We’ve been so horrible to you. How can you stand to be in the same room as us?”

Michael looks down at the stone floor at their feet, because he doesn’t know the answer to Calum’s question. Calum is barefoot. The hem of his trousers pools on top of his feet so that only his toes are visible. Michael stares at them as he collects his thoughts. Everything inside of his mind is jumbled, and his emotions are all over the place. He’s not sure what to do with himself.

He shouldn’t want to be here right now—not when Calum and Luke have hurt him so much—but he doesn’t want to be anywhere else.

“You said you were my friend,” he says, finally. He doesn’t dare look up at Calum or at the others. He’s speaking a little too closely to his heart, and they’ve already bruised and bloodied it. He stares at Calum’s feet instead, at his toes that are curled up over the stone floor. His thoughts are still a mess. No matter how hard he tries, he can’t quite sort through them. He keeps circling back to one thing. “You all said you were my friend, and then you just—you weren’t.”

The others collectively wince. Michael doesn’t look up to see it, but he can hear it in the sharpness of their breaths. He can sense it in the tension of the air around them. Calum’s hands on his hips feel like flames, and Calum digs his thumbs even farther into Michael’s skin as if he can feel Michael trying to pull away but doesn’t want to let him go.

Michael feels tiny all of a sudden, too small for his skin. He wraps his arms around his chest and hunches his shoulders. He doesn’t like the weight of their stares, heartbroken and devastated like he himself has been since the day that awful banner hung in the Great Hall and he took the fall for it when they didn’t give him a chance to explain that it wasn’t him.

It’s not fair.

“You made me _believe_ you,” says Michael. His voice is hollow, but nobody else is talking, so he might as well. He squints his eyes shut. A lump threatens to form his throat. He swallows against it. They haven’t listened to him in so, so long, but they’re listening now, and he’s going take advantage of it. “That’s the worst part. I told you—I _told_ you that you didn’t want to be friends with me, but you didn’t listen, and you made me start to believe otherwise.”

“ _Mikey_ —” breathes Calum. Michael’s name is like a sin rolling off his tongue.

“You made me start to believe that you _wanted_ me, but you didn’t. Not really.”

“We did—we _do_ ,” says Calum.

“Don’t say that,” snaps Michael. He steps back from Calum, forcing distance between them. Calum looks lost in the absence of Michael’s touch. Anger is a mighty beast in Michael’s chest, and he lets his pain feed into it. “Don’t say you want to be my friends when you lot haven’t done a good job at proving to me that you do.”

Calum nods his head and bites his lips together, properly chastened. He doesn’t say anything, too startled by Michael’s outburst to respond. He glances helplessly toward Ashton, because, out of them all, Ashton has been the least mean to Michael. But it’s not Ashton who speaks. It is Luke, and he doesn’t say anything that Michael expects.

“My parents were murdered in the final months of the war.” 

“Luke—” begins Ashton.

“No,” snaps Luke, glaring briefly at Ashton but returning his gaze to Michael. He sets his shoulders, keeps his chin level to the ground. A fighting stance. It’s all a show, though. His hands tremble at his side. His voice is wobbly when he speaks. He looks like a scared little boy trying to pretend like he’s brave enough to fly on a broomstick alone for the first time. “I have to say this—hell, I should have told you a long time ago, but, er, I thought you already knew?”

Michael blinks, confused. He doesn’t know what Luke’s dead parents have to do with him. He wonders if this is a tactic, if Luke is spinning his sob story to divert Michael’s attention. To trick Michael into feeling to so sorry for him that Michael has to forgive them all. Anger churns in his chest at the idea. A spike of betrayal pierces his heart. It’s a cheap shot, if that is true.

“Don’t you dare feel sorry for me, okay?” says Luke as if he’s reading Michael’s mind. He says it forcefully, like this is something that he has to tell people all too often. “This isn’t about me. I mean, it is, but, _Merlin_ , Michael, there’s a reason I’ve not been nice to you since we met. I was… I was raised to hate the Clifford name, and when my aunt found out that I’d be attending Hogwarts with you, well… Extremism goes both ways, doesn’t it? Like, your family is all about the dark arts and Slytherin and the old regime of Voldemort’s reign, but mine—mine is all about hating your family, about clinging to the past so tightly that it distorts everything and there’s nothing left except hatred, pure and simple.”

Luke loses steam for a moment, his hands trembling so badly at his sides that he stuffs them into the pocket of his robes. He looks like a mess. He doesn’t sound much better. Ashton makes a move toward him, but Luke shakes his head. Ashton stops, helpless and looking for all of the world like he might fall apart himself by the amount of effort it is taking to refrain from comforting Luke.  

Michael watches the exchange, but he feels at a loss for what is happening. Anger still courses through his veins, but it’s diluted now, overwhelmed by confusion. He thinks, maybe, he should feel even angrier that Luke has this much power over him after all of this time.

“I don’t understand?” he ventures.

He and Luke have never really stood on the same level. Sure, they had become actual friends after Michael had finally proven himself to Luke by saving Calum, but they were never as close as Michael was to Calum or to Ashton. He’s always had trouble reading Luke, anticipating his next move. Now is no different. He wants to know what Luke is dancing around—because it has to be important—but he has a sinking feeling in the pit of his stomach that he’s not going to like whatever it is that Luke is going to say.

“ _Merlin_ , Michael, your family is the reason that mine is dead.”

There it is.

The bombshell.

The reality that Luke has lived with his entire life, most notably for the past five years he’s known Michael. For the past five years he’s _hated_ Michael.

On some level, Michael has always known what his family did in the war. His parents aren’t exactly quiet about it. They’re proud of it—proud of their service to the great Dark Lord and proud that they managed to pull the wool over the Minister’s eyes and convince him they were working for Dumbledore the entire time. So Michael knows his parents gained the trust of muggleborns and sold them out for a pretty penny. That people lost their lives so that his parents could get filthy rich. But Michael had never had the reality of it shoved in his face so bluntly. So heart-breakingly.

He can do nothing except stare at Luke in horror.

“My mum, she was muggleborn, and my dad couldn’t prove that he wasn’t. His own dad had skipped town before he’d been born, but my grandmum swore up and down he was a halfblood. It didn’t matter. There was too much muggle blood in my family, and your parents found out, and they tricked mine into trying to leave the country. It was a trap. They were waiting for us, the Death Eaters. They slaughtered my parents. I don’t… I don’t remember it at all. I was only a baby, but my oldest brother remembers some of it. He, er, doesn’t like talking about it. Nobody does, really, except to remind me to stay as far away from you as possible.”

The air is so thick with tension between them that it’s suffocating. It’s uncomfortable. Michael feels like he can’t breathe. Luke looks like he’s having a similar problem. Anger flickers like the flame of a candle in Michael’s chest. He’s angry and hurt and _so, so sorry_ all at once, and he doesn’t know what to do with all of these emotions welling up inside of him. These people—Luke, Calum, and Ashton—they’d been his friends, and they’d turned their backs on him, and they’d broken him beyond repair. He should be mad right now and nothing else.

It’s hard to be mad, though, knowing now what Luke has known all along. That the war is more than just old stories his parents pass around the dinner table. That the war is more than just the scars that Hogwarts bears. That the war is more than just the Dark Lord versus Harry Potter.

“I’m not my parents,” says Michael, quietly, because that is important. He hates that people immediately think that he is. That he is going to follow in their footsteps and chase the glory of the Slytherin house. That someone like Luke—who had been so, so nice to Michael for a brief period of time, just long enough for Michael to know they could be great friends—could think the worst in him, too.  

He thinks of Luke’s unkind words from so long ago, from the day they had all had tracked him down in the library for the first time. He thinks he understands now more than before why Luke had been so hesitant to trust him. Why he had called him a dirty Slytherin like that was the worst thing in the entire world and why he’d threatened Michael against hurting Ashton and Calum. To Luke, there was nobody more dangerous than Michael. It was simple. Michael was a Clifford, and the Clifford family was the reason Luke’s own family were dead, and Luke couldn’t stand another Clifford to hurt anybody else that he loved.

“I know,” says Luke, equally quiet. “I know you’re not, but that day with the banner in the Great Hall? You’d never seemed so much like them as you did then. That’s why it had to be you, or so I thought. You’d done exactly what your parents had done. You’d gotten us to trust you and then you’d stabbed us in the back.”

“But I didn’t.”

“No, you didn’t,” agrees Luke.

He sounds sad, and Michael doesn’t like how Luke’s sadness overwhelms the anger that Michael should be feeling. He has a right to be mad. These people promised him friendship and then they’d turned their backs on him the first chance they had gotten. It’s not fair that Luke is telling him all of this. Not now, at least, when it’s the most powerful—when it’s the most devastating to Michael.

“If you’re going to be mad at anybody, be mad at me, not Ash and certainly not Calum,” adds Luke. “Because it’s my fault for buying into the same prejudices I accused you of having. My family’s bigotry is really no better than yours, and I was too stupid to realize that we weren’t really all that different in the grander scheme of things.”

“You can’t just tell me this, you know,” says Michael, slowly.

He feels betrayed, because he’s caught between wanting to apologize for his family—which is stupid, because apologies won’t bring back Luke’s parents, and it isn’t really Michael’s place to apologize anyway—and wanting to be mad at Luke for choosing _now_ to tell him the truth. Luke has had plenty of opportunities when they were actually friends to come clean, to explain why he has never been Michael’s friend or even Michael’s biggest fan. He hadn’t taken any of them. Michael wishes he would have. He wishes it more than anything in the entire world.

Michael would have felt hurt, probably, that Luke had judged him against such a harsh critique, but he would have probably understood. There are things Michael hates about his own parents. He can’t exactly fault Luke for hating Michael’s parents for what they did and for being afraid that Michael would be just like them—not if it were that simple.

But the thing is, Luke waited until now to tell him, and that stings. That cuts Michael right to his core, probably deeper than. Because he wasn’t worthy enough to know the story before things got to the point that Luke _had_ to tell it. Because he wasn’t worthy enough to know the story when he and Luke were _friends_.

“Why do you always do this to me? I always have to prove myself to you,” snaps Michael. He hates that it’s true. By the way Luke flinches, Luke knows it’s true, too. “Bloody hell, Luke! You can’t just tell me this and expect it to make up for everything you said to me—or that all of you said to me.”

“I know.”

“Stop saying that!” bellows Michael. Part of him is itching for a fight with Luke. Part of him wants to rip Luke to shreds for being so cruel. For withholding the story that ties them together until it was good for _Luke_ to tell Michael. For making Michael work so hard to be his damn friend. “I’m allowed to be mad at you—at all of you—and I’m allowed to do it on my own terms.”

Luke doesn’t rise to the bait. Perhaps he knows what it is that Michael is looking for but also knows that Michael doesn’t need a reason to prove everybody right—to prove that he is nothing more than a vindictive Slytherin, a _dirty_ Slytherin. To prove that he’s every bit as capable of being cruel like his parents.

Or perhaps Luke knows Michael is right. That Michael needs to be mad at them on his own terms. That they can’t steal this from him. They’ve already taken so much. This anger belongs to Michael and Michael alone, and they should heed to his demand like good friends would.

Michael glares at Luke for a moment longer, but in the end, he doesn’t have it in him to be mean. There’s been enough meanness between the four of them as of late. Michael is tired of it all. He’s tired of being lonely, but, mostly, he’s tired of not knowing where he stands—of relying on other people to validate him.

“I think I should leave,” he says aloud, looking away from Luke.

“You don’t have to. You don’t _ever_ have to,” says Calum, desperate. He takes a step toward Michael, but Michael takes one back, so the distance between them doesn’t lessen. Calum stops, wincing. “We’re sorry, Mikey. We’re so, so sorry.”

Michael offers Calum a sad smile. He thinks of the moment Calum had charged in like a knight-in-shining armor and saved him from Finn and Archer. It seems like a lifetime ago now, and Michael wonders if he would have made a different choice back then—when he allowed himself to be naïve enough to get close to Calum and to Ashton and to Luke—if he knew what he knows now: that it’s worse being lonely and knowing what it’s like to have friends than being lonely and wishing he had friends.

“I think… I think it’s a little too late for apologies, Cal,” says Michael, because it is, and he may be easy for them all, but Luke’s revelation really struck him to the core. They had turned their backs on him once, and Luke was conditioned to hate him, and there is no guarantee that they won’t hurt him again. Zayn and Louis were right earlier. Michael doesn’t think he could survive being thrown to the wolves a second time. “I don’t—I don’t _hate_ you, but maybe I should learn to.”

Calum lets out a pained gasp, like Michael has just delivered a mortal blow. He stumbles forward toward Michael once more. He reaches out, but Michael matches his steps backward. He shakes his head. He can’t be here any longer, not with Luke’s revelation bouncing around in his mind and jumbling all of his thoughts until he can’t see straight.

Michael reaches for the voids, and one comes to him immediately. It opens around him, engulfs him like a big hug, and tugs him in. It’s familiar and safe, and that’s what Michael needs right now. Calum dashes forward once more, desperate to get to Michael before Hogwarts sweeps him away, but he’s too late. The void snaps closed barely a centimeter from the tips of Calum’s fingers.

It’s just Michael and the magic of Hogwarts and nothing more.


	15. Chapter 15

The library is quiet. Michael revels in the silence. He sits on the edge of the arm chair in the tiny nook, a familiar and comforting spot. The magic of Hogwarts envelops him, wraps around him like an old blanket. Michael is completely and totally, one hundred percent alone, but for the first time in a long time, he doesn’t feel _lonely_.

He doesn’t actually know what he feels. Luke’s story volleys around in his mind. It poisons the anger coursing through his veins. Michael knows what his parents did in the war. He knows that war fucks people up, makes them make stupid decisions, creates grudges that last for generations afterward. He’s dealt with the repercussions of his parents’ choices his entire life. It’s nothing new, somebody taking their anger for Michael’s parents out on Michael himself. Michael had just thought that he was important enough to be told the truth from the very beginning that this was exactly what it was with Luke—to be told from the start that he never had a chance with Luke. Not really.

So he is angry with Luke. With Calum. With everybody. He is angry, because it’s more desirable than admitting that he’s hurt. He’s been hurt for far too long. Surely, by now, he’s reached his quota for feeling hurt, but apparently not. Because Luke telling his story when he did—ripping the rug right out from underneath Michael so that Michael can’t even feel angry without feeling _guilty_ —hurts like hell. It hurts like nothing else ever has.

He wants to scream.

Nobody comes looking for him. Part of him is glad. He needs the time alone to think about everything, to decide whether it is worth being friends with Calum, Luke, and Ashton. He thinks that, maybe, it might not be. They had promised him friendship, but they hadn’t stood by that promise. Michael had ended up being worse off than when he started. He doesn’t really know what could be worse than his life right now, but he doesn’t actually want to find out, either, so maybe it’s best that he makes a clean break. That he doesn’t go crawling back to Calum, Luke, and Ashton.

Well, maybe it doesn’t have to be a completely clean break. Maybe he can still be on speaking terms with them. He thinks that Ashton, for one, wouldn’t let him settle for any less, and Michael has always liked Ashton, who had been the only one brave enough to approach him after everything had gone so, so wrong. Michael hadn’t been lying when he’d told Ashton in the Forbidden Forest that he doesn’t hate them—that he _can’t_ hate them—but he also wasn’t lying when he told Calum just a few moments ago in the Hufflepuff Common Room that maybe he needs to learn how to hate them. Or, at least, he needs to learn how to not need them so much.

He needs to learn how to live for himself again, even if that means he’s lonely and friendless once again.

Nobody comes looking for him, and part of him is glad—really, part of him _is_ —but another part of him—a part that is arguably much larger than any other—is disappointed. Hurt. Because, yes, he’d asked for space. He _deserves_ space, too, but that doesn’t mean that he really, really wants it deep down inside. Because, maybe, if he’s not lying to himself, he really just wants one thing: to be friends—real, _actual_ —friends with Calum, Ashton, and Luke.

Because, yes, he really is that pathetic to want to give them another chance, even after everything that has happened. Even after they didn’t believe him. After they didn’t let him explain. After they didn’t bother to tell him Luke’s story until it was almost too late.

Michael kind of, sort of hates himself for being so weak.

Hours pass. How many exactly, Michael isn’t sure. He remains in solitude. It’s just like it used to be when he didn’t know what it was like to have friends at Hogwarts so he took up spellwork just to distract himself from how pitifully lonely it is to be the odd one out. The one nobody likes. Only this time, he knows what it’s like to have friends, and he still has them—in Louis and Zayn, at least—and he’s not so lonely all by himself.

 He gets bored at some point of the conflicting thoughts running through his mind. He wants to be friends with Calum, Luke, and Ashton, because they’d been so, so nice to him when nobody else ever had been, but he doesn’t want to be friends with them, because they turned their backs on him so easily. The thing is, he isn’t sure which one is winning out. As much as he wants to hate them—as much as he wants to be the dirty Slytherin Luke has always suspected him of being—he can’t. Because if he’s being completely honest with himself, this tiny little nook—his personal hideaway from all of the horrors in his life—has never felt so empty, not even with the magic of Hogwarts enveloping him still.

If he closes his eyes and tries hard enough—which, actually isn’t that hard at all—he can picture Calum, Luke, and Ashton here with him like they used to be when they were all friends. When everything was good, and Michael didn’t know the awful, horrible reality that was Luke’s dead parents. The armchair feels so big without Calum snug against him, shoulder-to-shoulder like good friends, and it is eerily quiet in the absence of Luke and Ashton’s mindless chatter about anything and everything in between.

Michael doesn’t even bother to lie to himself in this moment. He misses them. Plain and simple. He doesn’t hate them, and he misses them, and that should matter for something. That should have him up and out of his chair, stampeding his way right to them to tell them that he’s tired of missing them. That he’s tired of this exhaustive dance across thin ice they’ve got going on between them.

 _But they hurt you_ , says a tiny voice in the back of his mind, and it’s this voice that is almost drowning out everything else—even after he’s gotten their apologies.

 _They lied to you_ , adds the voice whenever Michael gives into its first truth. _By omission, yes, they lied to you. Luke should have told you about his parents a long, long time ago._

_And they’re trusting that you’ll be easy for them—that you’ll bear the brunt of the guilt._

It’s the last thought that makes Michael’s body go cold all over. That’s the kicker to the whole situation. That’s why their apologies haven’t been enough, and maybe Michael has known it on some level all along. Maybe that’s what gave him the courage to say what he did to Calum—to demand time rather than accept their guilt.

They haven’t acted guilty. Not really. Even with their apologies, never once have any of them taken any step to make Michael feel like he meant anything more to them than a bad memory that needed to be corrected. Not even Ashton—who had professed that he wanted to be Michael’s best friend—had actually followed through on his promise. Not even three minutes after he’d proclaimed his wish, he’d marched Michael right into the lion’s den, and he’d brought him face-to-face with Calum and Luke, and he’d told Michael’s story for him like it was his mission to correct a wrong, not a mistake.

On the surface, it was a mastermind idea. Calum and Luke listen to Ashton like he speaks the truth of the gods. Surely, they’d believe him if he told them Michael was innocent—and they did. But the core of it was selfish. Underneath the niceties and the well-meaning crusade to reunite Michael with Calum and Luke, Ashton had shown who he was truly loyal to: Luke and Calum.

Not Michael.

Ashton hadn’t had Michael’s back. He’d thrown him to the wolves and sat back and watched everything unfold. The thing is, in the end, when it’s Michael against Luke and Calum, Ashton will choose them every single time. He always has, even after he’d declared he wanted to be Michael’s best friend. The thing about best friends, they always have one another’s back. Always. Ashton hadn’t had his.

The realization is a knife in his heart, twisting until he bleeds dry. It makes Michael angry again. He has spent the past month bearing the brunt of the guilt that wasn’t his to begin with, and he’ll be damned if he carries it any longer. He can’t be easy for them anymore. He can’t keep bleeding for them when they have never bled for him. He just can’t. He’ll lose himself, and that’s the one thing he’s always had.

The lights flicker in the library. It is the five-minute warning that the place will be shut down for the night. Michael thinks about curling up in his armchair and sleeping here, but he dismisses the idea almost immediately. Louis and Zayn will personally hunt him down, regardless of curfew rules. Michael would be all too easy for them to find, especially since he hasn’t yet mastered the undetectable charm in the spellbook they gave him for Christmas. If he was proficient at that, he could cast it and never be spotted for as long as he liked. But he isn’t, so that’s not an option.

What is an option is returning to the Slytherin dungeon where a nice, comfortable bed awaits him in the sixth year boys’ dorm. It’s the more desirable of the two choices, and Michael is tired of the voices inside of his head. Zayn and Louis are good to silence the doubts. Or, at least, to distract Michael from them.

So he retreats from the library, making sure to take a complicated route that ensures he won’t cross paths with any Gryffindor, Ravenclaw, or Hufflepuff. He doesn’t want to see Luke, Ashton, or Calum, and he’d rather not run into them by happenstance on his way back to the safety that is Louis and Zayn. He feels all raw. Vulnerable. Weak. He’s terrified that another wide-eyed apology from any of them would crumble his resolve to be angry on his own terms. He is barely holding on by himself.

He makes it all the way to the entrance to the common room in one piece. He doesn’t stumble into a single other soul. He feels a spike of victory for such a small feat. It brings a smile to his face, because, _finally_ , something has gone his way for once, but he freezes the moment he opens his mouth to give the password to the Slytherin dungeon, for seated next to the concealed doorway is none other than Calum Hood.

Michael swears his heart literally stops beating, his entire body rigid. Calum looks ruffled, like he’s sat here for a very long time. He doesn’t notice Michael initially. His eyes are closed, and he has his head reclined against the wall. He looks exhausted and nothing at all like the Hufflepuff prince he is. It’s an eerie sight. It’s a near heart-breaking sight.

Just when Michael regains his senses and decides that, maybe, he should travel by a void instead to the dormitory, Calum opens his eyes. His gaze locks with Michael’s. He gasps, scrambling to his feet like a child eager for presents on Christmas morning.

“What are you doing out here?” asks Michael. The question comes out a little accusatory, but he already has an idea of why Calum was staking out the entrance to the Slytherin dungeon.

“Louis and Zayn refused to let me inside,” says Calum. He doesn’t break eye contact with Michael. It’s like he is terrified that Michael will disappear if he looks away. “I think they might’ve hexed the entrance to your common room, too, because it felt all tingly when I knocked earlier.”

Michael glances down at Calum’s right hand, and he feels a rush of gratitude run through him. He could spot Louis’ spellwork anywhere. Calum’s hand is swollen as well as colored a horrible shade of puke yellow. It makes Michael think of the time Louis hexed Nick Grimshaw’s skin a polka-dotted green and silver color for a week last year after Slytherin defeated Gryffindor for the Quidditch Cup.

“I, er, was looking for you,” Calum goes on to say.

He doesn’t bother to hide his hand out of Michael’s sight. It wouldn’t matter if he did or not. Michael’s eyes snap back up to his, and Calum’s gaze is just as heavy, just as intense, as it was a few seconds ago. Michael tries not to shift uncomfortably underneath it.

“I figured you had to come through here at some point, hopefully.”

There is desperation in Calum’s voice. It twists at Michael’s heart, but he knows why it’s there. Technically, Calum could sit outside of the entrance to the Slytherin dungeon until they graduated and never catch Michael. The voids can take Michael wherever he wants to go. Calum knows this. He must have been grasping at straws, picking this manner to speak with Michael.

“What d’you want from me, Cal?” asks Michael, sighing.

He can feel the residual anger slipping away with every second that passes between them. It’s awful looking at Calum now and trying to hold onto his anger. Calum looks like all of the sad things in life rolled up into one now—like a rainy Monday morning, a cold cup of ruined pumpkin juice, and a double potions on a Friday afternoon all at once. Michael hates how defeated Calum looks, and he thinks that he hates that he is losing control of his anger even more.

Calum is quiet for a moment, gathering his thoughts. Or perhaps trying to outlast Michael’s wavering anger. When he finally speaks, he does it in a steady voice, but his eyes start to water. His lower lip trembles, and Michael thinks that he hates Calum Thomas Hood so, so much right now—except that he doesn’t. Not at all. He loves him.

“We were supposed to be friends forever, you and me,” says Calum, holding Michael’s gaze. “D’you remember? We were eight years old, and I asked you if you’d be my friend forever, and you told me, ‘Of course,’ like there was no other possible answer.”

He shoots Michael a small smile, but it’s almost overpowered by remorse. By the fact that their childhood promise to one another was so easily broken. Twice.

Michael can’t manage a smile in return. He does, in fact, remember that day vividly, but it’s for an almost entirely different reason. He did promise Calum they’d be friends forever, but that moment is clouded over by the lashings he’d received when his caretaker had found Michael consorting with the _neighborhood boy_ again. Growing up as the only son of the Clifford family, Michael wasn’t allowed to be friends with a half-blood whose mother was muggleborn. It was uncomely of a Clifford.

When Michael had shouted at his parents that Calum was his favorite person in the history of forever and he liked that Calum didn’t go to stuffy dinner parties full of boring people, his mother had unleashed her worst. To this day, Michael still has the scars from the magical whip on the back of his thighs. He can still remember the blood running down his legs as he’d whimpered over and over again _Calum is my friend. Calum is my best friend_.

“I’ve been a shit friend,” says Calum in the space of Michael’s silence. “I should have never let you go when we were eleven, and I shouldn’t have turned my back on you that day the banner hung in the Great Hall. I was an idiot—a proper wanker—both of those times. I was too stupid to realize what I was throwing away, but I’m not anymore. I couldn’t let you go again. I know you said you wanted time, but, dammit, Mikey, you’re my favorite person in the entire world—all of ours, really—and I don’t want you to be lonely.”

 _But I’m not_ , thinks Michael. He doesn’t say it out loud, because he doesn’t know how to explain to Calum that Hogwarts has him and Hogwarts isn’t letting go. Not like Calum himself did. Hogwarts won’t hurt him. It’ll only protect him.

“Luke feels like a bastard, thinks he fucked up—and _he did_ , but he didn’t mean for things to go so wrong. He just wanted you to understand. He doesn’t think you are your parents. None of us do.”

Michael flinches at the reminder. It’s a dull throb of a familiar ache. He tries to ignore it. He tries to tell it to go away. He is allowed to be mad at Calum, Luke, and Ashton for what they did to him, and he’s allowed to do it on his own terms. He had wanted his space for a reason. That reason was to think everything over. It was to decide if being friends with Luke and the others was worth the endless push and pull effort it took to remain friends with them.

It was to decide if having friends who’d hurt him once and might do so again was really any better than not having any friends at all.

“He had plenty of opportunity to tell me the truth before now,” say Michael. He hates how small he sounds. He wants to be brave. He wants to sound as angry as he has a right to feel, but it’s hard to sound mad when it’s almost his fault, too, that Luke was hurting in the first place. That Luke carried around this horrible past. That Luke grew up without his parents when Michael was relatively safe and content with his own. Still, though, he musters up as much force as he can to say the next few words. “He waited until it was in his favor to tell me.”

“Yeah, he did,” agrees Calum. There is no sense in denying the obvious, and Michael respects the fact that Calum can admit such an awful truth about one of his best friends. “I’m sorry, Mikey—not just for Luke but for everything.”

Michael drops his gaze to the stone floor, feeling uncomfortable. He is still a little angry. He doesn’t like Calum’s apology, and he doesn’t like how Calum looks at him with such intensity that it makes Michael’s skin crawl. How Calum regards Michael with unnamable fervor as if Michael himself holds all of the answers to the universe. The thing is, this is kind of, sort of the apology Michael deserves, but the apology means nothing alone. It means nothing unsupported in its current form. That’s why Michael hates it. That’s what allows Michael to cling to his anger like a dying man clinging to life.

There is a spell in the book Louis and Zayn had given him for Christmas can cloud up the whole corridor with a disorienting fog. Michael thinks about using it now. He’s decent at it. His wandwork a little unsure, still, in the newness of the spell. It’d be useful now. It’d given him a chance to escape Calum and all of Calum’s empty promises.

“I know you don’t want my apologies,” says Calum as if he’s reading Michael’s mind. Maybe he is, somehow. Maybe he has gotten good at Legilimency in the time they’ve grown up without one another, and he really is reading Michael’s thoughts. The next few words that fall from his mouth seem to prove as much. “I swore to you—we _all_ —swore to you that we’d keep you forever. It’s about time we make good on our promise.”

The knife in Michael’s heart twists even more. He releases the pain in a disbelieving snort. He remembers Calum’s promise, but he also remembers how Calum and Luke and Ashton turned their backs on them the first chance they got. He can’t take the chance of believing him again. He doesn’t think he’ll survive another catastrophic heartbreak. He’s barely surviving this one.

“It doesn’t quite seem like Luke and Ashton agree with you.”

“They do,” says Calum quickly. “They’re—er, we didn’t really know where you’d gone off to, and the voids won’t accept us anymore, so we couldn’t follow you through. When Louis and Zayn wouldn’t help us, we split up. Ashton went to—”

“What d’you mean the voids won’t accept you?” asks Michael, sudden and startled.

He is a little rude, but this is news to him. He taught Calum and the others how to manipulate the pockets in Hogwarts’ magic to travel anywhere in the castle in the blink of an eye. He had personally gone through with Calum once. He had felt how Hogwarts had opened up to him. He had witnessed how Hogwarts welcomed Ashton and Luke, too. It doesn’t make sense that they would just _forget_ how to travel the voids. That they wouldn’t be able to follow him through.

 Calum chews on his bottom lip. His eyebrows are furrowed. His forehead is crinkled. Michael is caught off-guard for a split second by how _good_ Calum looks right now. He hadn’t forgotten, over the past few weeks, how attractive Calum is. If anything, being within arm’s reach of him again has only proved to Michael how gone for Calum he still is. The fact that Michael hasn’t even used the spell for a safe getaway is the greatest indicator that, deep down inside, Michael doesn’t want to run away. He wants to hear Calum out face-to-face, and maybe—just maybe—he wants to believe that Calum will follow through on his promise to be keep Michael forever.

“We haven’t been able to travel the voids since you taught us, and, believe me, we’ve tried,” says Calum. “It’s like—you know how you told Luke that he had to think about something that made him completely happy and then invite Hogwarts to him? Yeah, er, that doesn’t quite work for us anymore? Like, I think Hogwarts knows that we fucked up with you, and I think it’s punishing us for hurting you. Hogwarts is loyal to you. Hell, it’s loyal to you like we should have been.”

Michael opens his mouth to tell Calum how ridiculous that sounds, because, surely, a castle can’t have loyalty. That’s preposterous. Something, though, stops him from speaking. He thinks about how the magic of Hogwarts hugs him like an old friend, about how he had barely had to call out for a void earlier but one came to him instantly. He thinks about the way the void had purposefully evaded Calum’s hand when Calum had reached for Michael, as if it’d known that Michael didn’t want Calum to follow him.

“Maybe Hogwarts is right to keep you out, then,” Michael says, speaking to the spot on the wall just behind Calum’s left shoulder. He has to remind himself he has a right to be mad, that he has a right to go about his anger on his own terms, and that Calum can’t just swoop in with empty apologies and expect them to be enough. That falling in love with Calum is a stupid, stupid thing to do now. “You hurt me—you all did—and you didn’t even care.”

“We did care. We do care.”

“You didn’t. Maybe you only _say_ that you do now, because you feel guilty, but, dammit, I’m worth more than guilt.”

Calum stays quiet. The truth of Michael’s words echo in the space between them. Michael thinks about calling another void to him, especially now that he knows Calum can’t follow him through. He’ll hide out in the sixth year boys’ dorm. Louis and Zayn won’t tell a soul where he is—they’ll more likely chase Calum down with a stronger spell than just an elementary prank hex. Michael will be safe.

It’s so, so tempting to run. To let Louis and Zayn fight his battles for him. But Michael is tired of running. He is tired of letting other people control his life and of relying on others to make him feel _human_. Calum’s promises sound nice, and Michael wants to believe them. He really, really does, but he doesn’t think he can pay the price for them. He can’t sell himself—can’t bear the brunt of the guilt that isn’t his—any longer. It’s time he takes a stand. It’s time he gives into his anger.

“You’ve got to let me go, Cal.”

“You don’t mean that, Mikey.”

The truth is, Michael does.


	16. Chapter 16

Michael trudges into the sixth year boys’ dorm, trying to think about anything other than the absolutely devastated expression on Calum’s face whenever Michael had disappeared through the entrance to the Slytherin dungeon. He hadn’t meant to look back at Calum, but Calum had called after him, and he’d turned on instinct before he had realized what he was doing. He’d nearly faltered at Calum’s agonized expression, heart twisting painfully in his chest.

But anger still coursed through his veins. He had a right to be angry, so he clung to it. He refused to break for Calum—refused to forsake himself for Calum. So he’d turned back around and marched right into the dungeon, putting one foot in front of the other and trying not to think about who he was leaving behind.

Miraculously, he hadn’t stopped until right now. The common room had been packed full of people when he’d passed through a moment ago, but, in here, it’s empty, except for Zayn and Louis, who have taken up residence on Michael’s transfigured bed.  There is a pile of cards spread out between them. It’s some muggle game, probably, because the pictures on the cards don’t move, and Louis has an unhappy frown on his face. He hates losing. Zayn always wins when they play games his muggle grandfather taught him.

“I played a two,” Zayn says to Louis, barely looking up at Michael’s entrance. He grins wickedly at Louis, though. “You’ve got to draw.”

“Bloody cheater,” Louis snaps. “This is why I don’t play cards with you.”

Zayn chuckles, all too amused at Louis’ annoyance. He’s been friends with Louis for far too long to be properly insulted by Louis’ words. He nudges the stack of face-down cards in Louis’ direction. Louis grumbles once more as he dutifully takes the top two. He makes a face at the makeup of the three cards that are now in his possession.

“I hate you, Malik.”

Michael hesitates in the doorway, watching as Zayn takes his next turn. He wonders if they’ve even noticed his entrance. Almost as soon as that thought enters his mind, however, the mystery is solved.

“Where’d your Gryffindor bodyguard fuck off to?” asks Louis. He is clearly speaking to Michael, but he doesn’t look up at him. He keeps his attention, instead, on his game with Zayn. A six of clubs is face-up, but Louis can’t play any of the cards in his hand on it, so he draws another one from the stack. He curses underneath his breath then nods at Zayn, indicating he can’t play.

It’s almost like Michael isn’t even in the room. He flinches. He’s always known Louis can hold a grudge like no other—it has been obvious enough over the years of watching  Louis and Nick Grimshaw butt heads—but he never considered that Louis might be unhappy with him for choosing Ashton over Louis earlier. He never considered Louis might not have his back when he needed him.

“Play nice, Lou,” murmurs Zayn. He looks over at Michael, and he is much kinder than Louis had been when he speaks. “Did you get what you wanted? Did Ashton fix everything for you?”

Zayn actually sounds hopeful, like he wants nothing more than Ashton to have made everything in Michael’s life better again, and it crashes all over Michael in the worst of ways. Unprepared for the assault, Michael buckles against it. He grabs for the doorframe. The stone is unyielding underneath his fingers, and he’s thankful for it. He’s afraid that his knees might not hold his weight on their own. He feels shaky all over, like he’s liable to end up in a pile on the floor anyway. His entire body flushes, humiliated.

“No.”

“No?” repeats Louis, surprised. His eyes snaps to Michael for the first time since Michael arrived, and they’re sharp with concern. “He took you to Calum and Luke, didn’t he? To explain? I was damn certain they’d listen to him.”

“They, er—they did.”

“Then what’s the problem? You’ve got your happy ending, don’t you?” asked Louis.

Michael snorts, because it’s easier to pretend like this whole ordeal means nothing to him than to admit how much it fucking _hurts_ that Calum, Luke, and Ashton’s apology should have been enough but wasn’t. He thinks that, maybe, there is no sense in lying to Louis and Zayn, as their expressions both simultaneously morph into something akin to worry.

“It’s not that easy,” says Michael, quietly. He averts his eyes from Louis, unable to stand the intensity of them. He doesn’t think he has ever said a truer statement in his entire life. “ _Fuck_. It’s not that easy.”

Louis grimaces, properly chastised by the raw honesty in Michael’s statement. For the first time since Michael has known Louis—both as a friend and as nothing more than a fellow housemate—Louis looks… lost. Unsure. It’s unsettling, but expectations can do that to people. They can build people up, place them on a high pedestal, and then rip everything out from underneath them and let them tumble. Let them crash to the ground without a safety-net to break their fall.

“D’you—er—d’you want it to be?” asks Zayn quietly whenever Louis proves to be silent.

It’s disconcerting that it’s Zayn who is making the first leap. He’s always preferred trailing after Louis, trusting Louis to know what to say in any given situation. But now, Louis doesn’t look like he could speak even for all of the words in all of the languages of the world.

Michael drops his gaze to the floor, because that’s just _it_. He wants it to be that easy so, so badly. He wants to be able to say that Calum’s and Luke’s and Ashton’s apologies are enough, and he wants to be able to believe that with all of his heart. But they’re not. He can’t set himself up to crash and burn any longer.

“I don’t want to be hurt anymore,” is how Michael answers Zayn’s question, and it’s not a proper response for what was posed to him, but it’s the best Michael can do. It’s the closest to the truth he dares to touch. Yes, he does want everything to be _that easy_ , but it doesn’t really matter what he wants. It’s what he _needs_ that is important, and he needs to not be hurt again.

“Mike—” begins Zayn, but he stops, at a loss for how to continue. He glances furtively at Louis, but Louis hasn’t stopped staring at Michael and doesn’t look like he’s in any shape to add anything to the conversation. Zayn looks back at Michael. “I don’t know what to say.”

“I don’t know what to do,” mirrors Michael.

Zayn doesn’t know what to say to that either, or, if he does, he doesn’t voice it. He sighs, offers Michael a sad smile, and places his last card on the deck between him and Louis, efficiently winning the game. The spirit of victory, however, is dulled. He quietly deals another hand, placing a third pile down on the bed for Michael. They spend the rest of the night—all the way to the early morning hours—playing the muggle card game. If Louis and Zayn let Michael win more than he really should, they’re just being good friends.

Michael could do with some good friends.

Daylight comes soon enough. It’s another day of classes. His first one speeds by, but potions drags on. Michael thinks the universe must know how much he doesn’t want to face Ashton and Luke. Unlike Hogwarts, though, the universe doesn’t actually care about him. Professor Slughorn magics the steps to their potion on the board up front, letting the students work their own ways through the difficult brewing process.

Michael does a quick copying spell he found in the book Louis and Zayn had given him for Christmas. It’s just a simple trick to transfer Slughorn’s instructions onto a scrap of parchment so that Michael doesn’t have to look in Ashton and Luke’s direction—so that he doesn’t even have to acknowledge they exist. It’s easier to hold onto his anger whenever he can pretend like they’re not within arm’s length of him. He ignores the glances they shoot him throughout the lesson. It’s better that way.

The instructions aren’t that hard to follow, or, rather, they shouldn’t be. Michael does well on his own. He makes it a point to triple check every single step before he acts on any of them. He doesn’t want to make a stupid mistake and forget to add the porcupine quills or something. His potions score depends heavily upon his ability to follow directions, and without relying on Ashton and Luke’s work, like he was able to do before everything blew up in his face, Michael needs to be twice as cautious as he usually is—which isn’t actually that cautious to begin with, and that’s probably why Ashton bats his hand away whenever Michael tries to add a sprig of peppermint to his concoction.

Startled, Michael glares up at him. Ashton smiles apologetically at him, but he is unabashed as ever as he gently takes the sprig of peppermint from Michael’s grasp and hands him his stirring rod instead.

“You have to stir it first—four times, anti-clockwise,” says Ashton. He lets go of Michael, slowly like he’s afraid he might scare Michael off by moving too quickly. “It’ll double the side effects if you don’t—and nobody really wants to hear Professor Slughorn belt out the chorus to ‘God Rest Ye Merry Hippogriff’ again, you know. That one time last year was painful enough.”

Michael vaguely recalls Professor Slughorn’s drunken, off-key rendition of the wizard Christmas carol bellowed at the top of his lungs last year before the Christmas holidays, but the full memory is washed out by how pretty Michael remembered Calum looking with magical snowflakes in his hair. The entire hall had been covered in snow magicked by Professor Flitwick as a nice holiday touch for everybody’s last night in the castle before the break. Michael hadn’t been on speaking terms with Calum then. He hadn’t even spoken to Calum since they were first years and Michael had delivered the fatal blow to their friendship with the cutting words: _You want me to be fine? Do me a bloody favor and just stop talking to me._ Calum had obliged, no questions asked, and, three years later, Calum probably didn’t even remember Michael existed.

But sitting there that night at the end of the Slytherin table with a plate of Christmas pudding in front of him, Michael had wished he could turn back time. That isn’t a thing wizards can do anymore—all of the time turners had been destroyed whenever Harry Potter had infiltrated the Ministry of Magic at the Battle of the Department of Mysteries during the Second Wizarding World, and research on the theory of time had been set back nearly a century—but there was something magical about Calum sprinkled with snow that had tugged at Michael’s heartstrings and made him long for his childhood friend. It’d barely been a year, at that point, since he’d admitted to himself that he found Calum attractive, but that little detail didn’t matter. Calum had consumed the entirety of Michael’s attention that evening, and not even Professor Slughorn’s mishap with Liam Payne’s Elixir to Induce Euphoria could draw Michael’s focus away.

So, yes, Michael knows, on some level, what an ineptly brewed Elixir to Induce Euphoria can do.

“Thanks,” he murmurs, accepting the help for what it is and nothing more.

He drops his gaze from Ashton back to his potion, and he doesn’t look back up for the rest of the class. When he’s finished his potion, he bottles it away in a vial. The liquid is a nice sunshine yellow color, just like it’s meant to be. Michael has never felt prouder of himself in a potions classroom before. He’d done it all by himself—mostly—and even Professor Slughorn offers him a word of praise whenever Michael hands over his work. It’s a nice feeling of victory in his chest.

He goes about cleaning up his workstation, and he carries his unneeded ingredients back to the stock room. When he returns to grab his book bag, there is a vial of rainbow-colored potion setting innocuously next to his _Advanced Potion-Making_ book. He halts right in front of his workstation and stares at the potion. At first, he thinks that it’s something that one of his fellow classmates intend to hand over to Professor Slughorn, but Michael glances toward tray of potions up front. Every slot is filled.

Luke shuffles his feet against the concrete floor, turned around to face Michael’s workstation, and he draws Michael’s attention to him. Luke glances briefly down at the potion then back up at Michael, and he offers a tentative smile, like it’s a peace offering. Michael gets a sinking feeling of humiliation in the pit of his stomach. He’d brewed a nice potion on his own, yet Luke seems to believe otherwise.

“I didn’t need the help,” snaps Michael, anger retuning to him like an old friend. It’s easier to be mad at Luke than it is to be mad at Calum and Ashton. He’d never had a chance with Luke, not really. “Not that you’ve ever cared to help me out in the past.”

Luke winces. “That’s not—”

“I don’t care,” interrupts Michael.

He’s being rude, but he doesn’t care. Anger flares in his chest. He hadn’t been enough for Luke. He never will be, and that still hurts. He snatches the potion off the workstation and throws it right at Luke’s chest in one swift motion. It splatters a rainbow color all down the front of Luke’s jumper, probably ruining the shirt, but the anger in Michael’s veins usurps his ability to care.

Luke glances down at the mess on his jumper then up at Michael, stunned. Michael thinks this is Luke’s perfect opportunity to strike back with all that he’s got. Luke is certainly capable of wielding his wand like a deadly weapon. But Luke doesn’t move a muscle, just stares at Michael.

“I’m not—I’m not a fucking pawn you can just control as you please,” says Michael. He tries to keep his voice as steady as he can. He’s allowed to be mad, dammit, no matter how much he wants to fold right now to Luke’s wrecked expression. “You’ve been mean to me since we met. It’s a little too late for you to play nicely now.”

He’s so done with Luke. He swears he is—except the devastation shining in Luke’s eyes physically _hurts_ Michael’s heart to look at. It’s not fair. Luke has no right to look heartbroken when he himself hurt Michael so, so badly. Luke _doesn’t_ have that right. Or, rather, he shouldn’t have it.

Michael turns away from him so that he can’t affect Michael any longer. Except it doesn’t quite work like that, and every time Michael closes his eyes, he still sees Luke’s crestfallen expression.

He has to leave right now, before he does something _stupid_ like _forgive_ Luke. So he shoulders his book bag. He grabs his beanie out of the pocket of it and pulls it down over his ears, the tips of his green hair stick out from underneath. He’s almost given up on trying to hide the atrocity. None of the spells so far in the book Louis and Zayn gave him come anywhere close to getting rid of the horrible shade of Slytherin green. At this rate, his hair won’t return to its natural blond color until it grows back out. The beanie, though, makes him feel safe, and he needs to feel safe again after Luke has so easily penetrated his defenses.

Ashton tries to stop Michael as he leaves—eager to take Luke’s side, probably, and try to get Michael to at least talk to them—but Michael sidesteps him. Ashton calls after him, but he pretends like he doesn’t hear. Michael quickens his pace and thinks about escaping through the voids. Neither Ashton nor Luke can follow him there, but he doesn’t want to slip into nothingness in the middle of the potions classroom.

He waits until he’s cleared the doorway then wills a void to him. Hogwarts accepts him instantly, opening up and letting him in like it’s the most natural thing in the world. Maybe it actually is. Michael thinks about what Calum had said yesterday, about Hogwarts being loyal to him. He swears he can feel the comfort of the castle’s allegiance swallow him up in the brief span of seconds that he’s enveloped in the voids until it spits him out the other side.

“Fancy running into you here, Clifford.”

Michael halts, his entire body going rigid. He reaches for his wand, but it’s too late. Finn is quicker. Bright light fills the corridor. The spell lifts Michael off his feet and throws him backward against the stone wall, holding him there. It knocks the breath from Michael’s lungs. His wand clatters to the ground, rolling uselessly away from him.

“You’re not so strong without your bodyguards, are you?” sneers Finn. He draws himself up to his full height, seemingly towering over Michael like a monster in the dark. Archer is a shadow behind him. “Louis and Zayn thought they had everything covered, but they didn’t account for this, did they? You running away, out the reach of their safeguards?”

Michael supposes Finn expects him to feel some sort of terror at the odds he’s faced with, but he’s not entirely unfamiliar with this type of setup. His mind flashes back to this time last year whenever he’d been pinned to a wall—this very wall, possibly, because he spies the entrance to the Room of Requirements just up the corridor from here. The setup had been eerily similar to now. He’d been wandless then, too, faced against Finn and Archer, and that had ended in a catastrophic explosion from Hogwarts herself, blasting Michael to safety through one of the voids and pelting Archer with debris and landing Finn in St. Mungo’s for the rest of the term. Michael is a little fuzzy with the specific details even to this day—he had hit his head hard when he had crash-landed in the tiny nook in the library—but he does vividly remember that there was an explosion.

So, Michael has faced similar odds before, and he’s not scared now, because Hogwarts has his back. Hogwarts always has his back.

“I don’t need bodyguards,” says Michael.

It’s true, he thinks, given his adept spellwork. He’s gotten pretty good at defending himself over the years. The word bodyguard, though, sets uneasily in his chest. Louis had referred to Ashton as his bodyguard, and he doesn’t think Louis could have been any farther than the truth. Ashton would never choose him over Luke and Calum, and now Finn speaks of Louis and Zayn as if they’re staging a conspiracy to keep Michael safe, which is preposterous. Louis and Zayn are nice to him. They’re friends with him, and they don’t need to be anything else to him.

“Apparently you do,” says Archer, smirking as he comes to stand shoulder-to-shoulder with Finn. “’Cause you’re all alone now, and you’re defenseless.”

 _But I’m not_ , Michael thinks. The magic of Hogwarts swirls around him like an invisible shield, but it won’t act unless he calls out to it. He thinks about the explosion last year, and he doesn’t know what caused it, but he doesn’t want a repeat of it now.

He won’t turn Hogwarts against them. It wouldn’t be right. He just wants to be safe and far, far away from Finn and Archer.

“We’ve waited a long time for this,” says Finn.

A smirk works its way onto his face, too. He raises his wand, lazily like he’s got all of the time in the world, and he readies a spell on the tip of his tongue. Michael has just long enough to doubt his prior resolution against using Hogwarts as his defender before light explodes in the corridor again. It’s blinding. Somebody screams—Finn, probably, but maybe Archer—and Michael has to close his eyes against the intensity of the spell.  

The magic which had held him flush against the wall disintegrates as the bright light dims into darkness. Michael slides down to the ground, his feet unsteady beneath him. He still doesn’t open his eyes. He’s too terrified to know what is left in the aftermath of such powerful wandwork. He remembers the explosion from last year again, and he’s fearful that it’s happened again—that he’s going to open his eyes and seen nothing but pools of blood where his housemates lay—but the magic of Hogwarts rushes around him, calming and comforting and nothing at all like the tension left in the wake of the all-encompassing magic back then.

Michael finally chances to open his eyes, and when he does, he sees Calum standing like a savior in the wreckage that is the corridor.


	17. Chapter 17

There is debris everywhere—rubble of stone and magic left over from when the war had waged across these very grounds some fifteen years ago—but Hogwarts is already righting itself. Calum’s spell, whatever it had been, had packed more illusory punch than it had damage. Finn and Archer lay unconscious in front of Michael, but they’re relatively unharmed given the intensity of Calum’s wandwork. Michael stares at Calum, stuck halfway between awe and horror.

“What was that?” demands Michael. He comes across a little sharper than he’d intended, but the entire corridor looked like it’d been hit by a muggle explosive. Even now, as Hogwarts is righting itself, Michael can see the scars left behind in the blast of magic, tiny ripples in the air that could split into a void at the slightest push.

“A disarming spell—or it was supposed to be. I dunno. I think, maybe, I, er, confused it with the explosive jinx Luke’s older brother taught me over Christmas,” answers Calum. He sounds just as surprised as Michael feels. His eyes dart all around at the wreckage that is slowly disappearing before them. “I saw Finn raise his wand, and I saw that you didn’t have yours, and I couldn’t—I had to do something. This was the first spell I thought of.”

“Your solution was to blow up the castle?”

Calum shrugs, a dark blush appearing in his brown cheeks. “I knew Hogwarts wouldn’t let you get hurt, so…”

Michael stops, his next retort dying on his lips. He watches as the rubble starts to magic itself back into place all around Calum. His heart skips a beat in his chest as he comes to a startling realization. There is a perfect circle of safety—of undisturbed stone—around Calum, as if he’d cast a last-second shield. But he hadn’t. Michael had felt the shock waves of Calum’s magic. Calum had thrown his all into the attack, leaving no room for his own defense.

Horror churns in Michael’s stomach. He glances at Finn’s and Archer’s prone forms, and he thinks about how Calum should be just like them, and he doesn’t like the picture that his mind creates. He’s mad at Calum for hurting him, yes, but he doesn’t want Calum to be hurt. He doesn’t ever want Calum to be hurt. Sometimes, when he’s particularly lonely curled up in the transfigured bed in the sixth year boys’ dormitory, he replays that awful quidditch match in his dreams, and he remembers, with startling detail, how it felt to watch Calum freefall hundreds of meters above the ground. Michael wakes up in a cold sweat every time, terror coursing through his veins.

But no matter how horrifying that memory is, it’s nothing compared to the reality facing Michael right now: Calum almost hurt himself saving Michael. The magic in this particular part of the castle feels weaker than any other spot Michael’s ever come across, save the spot in the Great Hall where the great Harry Potter finally defeated Lord Voldemort. Michael knows what weakness means. He knows, because he’s seen what this volatile magic is capable of doing. It forced Finn into St. Mungo’s. It left a scatter of thin, white scars across the skin of Archer’s face and arms. It blasted Michael himself halfway across the entire castle, so there’s no denying the truth of this situation right now. The reality of what had almost been.

Calum almost _killed_ himself saving Michael, and there is nothing that Michael could have done to save him in return.

“And what about yourself?”asks Michael, only he hears himself speak more than he consciously makes the effort to. He can’t really function beyond the terrifying realization that _Calum should be dead right now_. He draws in a shaky breath and forces himself to meet Calum’s eyes. “You didn’t have that guarantee.”

“I didn’t think it mattered all that much,” says Calum, no hesitation and certainly no shame.

He shrugs to reinforce his statement. Michael wonders how Calum can be so nonchalant about the fact that he’d just put himself into harm’s way for someone who point-blank told him _you’ve got to let me go, Cal_. For someone who had meant every word at the time. For someone who nobody ever cared enough to befriend for the past four and a half years until Calum himself did a few weeks ago.

Michael’s anger dissipates as the last of the rubble rights itself, and the corridor is left with no evidence of Calum’s magic except the ripples in the air and the prone bodies laying on the floor. Michael opens his mouth but shuts it almost immediately. He’s so stunned by Calum’s words that he scarcely remembers he should be clawing at his anger to come back.

“You didn’t think… _Merlin, Cal_. Have you—have you taken a bludger to the head recently?” asks Michael. Yes, he’d asked Calum to leave him alone, and, yes, he’s done a good job thus far at clinging to his well-deserved anger, but never in a million, billion years would Michael ever stop caring about Calum. Ever. “’Cause I can’t think of any other reason you’d be so carelessly mental.”

Calum blinks, his eyebrows raised high in surprise. His forehead is crinkled, and Michael lets himself be weak enough to admire how pretty the blush still on Calum’s cheeks looks.

“You’re supposed to be mad at me—at all of us,” says Calum. He gaze flashes to Finn and Archer then back to Michael. “I only wanted you to be safe. I didn’t think you’d care whether or not I was, too.”

“Of course, I would care if you got hurt. You’re my—” the words _best friend_ die in Michael’s throat as he remembers his anger. It’s a dull throb now, sort of like the lingering hurt of a sprained ankle days after it’s finally comfortable to walk on again. He can’t bring himself to say those words out loud, though. He’s not sure he wants to say them, and he doubts that Calum even wants to hear them, so he changes directions. “I am mad at you, still, but I don’t want to be forever.”

Calum hiccups out a laugh. A grin works its way onto his face. It looks like he’s trying to rein it in, like he doesn’t think he’s allowed to smile. He looks like he’s constipated, too filled up with conflictions to properly keep himself under control.

At the core of it, Calum looks like Michael just handed him the world.

“Can I, maybe, sit with you at lunch?” asks Calum, shyly.

Michael hasn’t ever known Calum to be shy. Not when they were little kids getting into all sorts of trouble and giving Mrs. Hood thousands of reasons to place magical barriers around the perimeter of her garden that met with muggle land to make sure the two of them kept their magical mischief hidden away. Not when they weren’t friends but Michael had watched Calum from afar for years and lamented over the loss of his favorite person in the entire world. Not when Calum weaseled his way back into Michael’s life through sheer determination only a few weeks ago.

The thing is, Calum doesn’t do shy. But here he is _being shy_. It’s all so disconcerting that it startles Michael to immediate silence. He’s quiet for so long that Calum starts to shuffle his feet, a blush of uncertainty making its way onto his cheeks. The blush isn’t pretty this time. The uncertainty is even worse than the shyness.

“I, er, normally sit with Louis and Zayn,” says Michael, finally. It’s not a yes or a no, but he figures that Calum should be aware of exactly what he’s asking. Of exactly what he’s signing up for.

“I know,” says Calum, fearless.

“They won’t be nice to you, probably.”

“I don’t care.”

“They’ll say mean things to you,” adds Michael.

Deep down inside, his anger is nothing more than an old pang of hurt, and it’s almost not worth holding on to anymore. He knows Louis and Zayn are going to do their best to bully Calum away, to make sure that Calum can never, ever hurt him again. Michael appreciates that. He does, but the truth is that he doesn’t think he wants Louis and Zayn to scare Calum off.

Calum smiles sadly at Michael, and he holds his gaze even though it looks like he’d rather be looking anywhere else, and he says, no frills and no gimmicks, “They can’t say anything worse to me than what I tell myself every single minute since I realized how badly I hurt you.”

It’s like a punch to the stomach. A piercing spell right through the heart. Michael’s breath catches in his lungs. He stumbles backward a couple of steps, flabbergasted by the weight of Calum’s admission. There’s nothing he can do except stare at Calum, and Calum, for his part, stares right back. The glint in Calum’s eyes belie how serious he is being.  The silence stretches out between them.

“Please? I just—I _miss_ you,” adds Calum.

There’s really nothing else for Michael to do other than to nod agreeably, because, if he’s being totally honest with himself, he misses Calum, too.

Calum smiles his relief. He takes a step forward, stretching out his arms, before he abruptly stops, remembering himself. He drops his arms to his sides. He chews on his bottom lip, looking just like he’s been offered the entire world but he’s not allowed to accept it.

It’s all too much for Michael to look at. Calum is doing funny things to Michael’s stomach—starting up a war of butterflies, for one—and Michael still feels too raw from the last time he trusted Calum with his everything to give anything away too easily now. Michael ducks his head away from Calum so that he doesn’t have to look at him any longer. He glances at the unconscious forms of Finn and Archer laying on the ground and changes the subject.

“We should probably do something about them. Maybe take them to the hospital wing?”

Calum laughs. Michael looks back at him on instinct. Gone is the overwhelming expression on Calum’s face. In its place is nothing more than pure amusement. It’s much easier to deal with, but the butterflies in Michael’s stomach don’t disappear. If anything, they only get worse. He loves the animated way Calum’s entire face lights up when he laughs.

“This is kind of like how we met, isn’t it? You know, the second time, not when we were kids.”

It kind of is, actually. Calum’s laugh is contagious, and Michael doesn’t even fight it. He gives into the amusement. It’s easy to forget, as they’re laughing like old friends, that anything bad ever happened between them. That Calum left Michael to the wolves. That Michael should, for all intents and purposes, still be mad at Calum—and he _is_ , only not really when it comes right down to the core of it all.

“We’ve never really got it right, have we?” he asks, sobering with every word.

Calum stops laughing, too, and the smile drops from his face, but he manages to hold Michael’s gaze as he answers, “No, but it’s about time we do—I mean, if and when you give me another chance.”

“Yeah,” says Michael, quietly.

He pauses for the long span of a moment, waiting for Calum to put two and two together. Calum doesn’t. He only stares at Michael, confused. Michael wants to laugh again, but, more than that, he wishes he could capture this moment in time forever.

This is it.

The quaffle is in his possession, and it’s his chance to take the shot.

“It’s about time we get things right.”

Calum’s eyes widen instantly, and a smile tugs at the corners of his lips like he wants so badly to smile but isn’t sure he has understood Michael correctly. Michael wants to take back his earlier wish, because that’s not the moment he wants to keep forever. It’s this one right here. This one with Calum looking at him like he is all of the stars in the entire universe.

“What are you—Please, don’t joke about this. I can’t—I can’t handle it if you’re not serious. You have no idea how much—”

“Cal,” interrupts Michael, grinning, “you just saved my arse at the potential expense of your own. I’m still mad, but I miss you, too. Fuck. I miss you probably more than you’ve ever missed me.”

“Impossible,” says Calum, immediately. He’s grinning, too, and this time when he starts for a hug, he doesn’t stop until his arms are wrapped firmly around Michael. “It’s impossible that you’ve missed me more than I have you. You’re my best friend, Mikey. You’re my best friend forever, and I swear to you it’ll really be forever this time.”

Michael snakes his arms underneath Calum’s armpits so that he can link his fingers together behind Calum’s back. He melts into the hug, and it feels like friendship and childhood and _home_ all at once. Michael never, ever wants to let go. The mighty beast of anger in Michael’s chest isn’t so mighty any longer. Michael buries his face into Calum’s neck. He clings to Calum as tight as he can, and Calum holds him just as tightly.

“It’d better be,” says Michael. His voice is muffled against Calum’s skin, but he’s pretty sure Calum understands him anyway. “I’m holding you to that.”

Calum nods, totally serious, and they cling to each other much longer than the situation really calls for, but Michael feels safe and protected and loved in a way he hasn’t felt in a long time. He’s greedy for all of the good things that Calum gives to him, and Calum seems just as reluctant to let him go.

But eventually they do part, because Michael’s stomach rumbles loudly. He blushes in embarrassment, but Calum just grins at him and throws his arm around Michael’s shoulder. It’s not really a loss that they’re not wrapped around each other anymore, because this is just as good.

Michael whips out his wand, casting a spell over Finn and Archer. It’s similar to the spell he’d used on them when they’d been transformed into frogs, only Michael isn’t strong enough to support both of them at one time. Calum takes over part of the spell, and the two of them walk Finn and Archer up to the hospital wing where Madam Pomfrey scolds them for fighting in the corridors. Contrary to Michael’s expectation, she doesn’t take any points away. She doesn’t threaten to tell the heads of their houses, either, so Michael counts it as a win.

Together, Michael and Calum walk to the Great Hall, and Calum doesn’t remove his arm from Michael’s shoulder until they’re seated at the Slytherin table. Even then, he scoots as close to Michael as possible, barely giving the both of them room to eat their meals. Sitting across from them, Louis  and Zayn glare identically at Calum, clearly unhappy with Calum’s presence at the table or, rather, with Calum attached to Michael.

“I thought you didn’t get your happy ending,” sneers Louis, speaking to Michael though his anger is obviously directed at Calum.

“Lou,” murmurs Zayn, warningly.

“Fuck off, Malik,” snaps Louis.

It’s vicious and nearly an attack on Zayn himself. Zayn recoils, but Louis doesn’t pay him any attention. He is still putting all of his effort into glaring daggers at Calum. He looks so lethal that Michael thinks Louis might even be reaching for his wand underneath the table.

“You’ve got a lot of nerve, Hood, acting like you’ve done nothing at all when you’re the bloody reason Michael cried himself to sleep for weeks!”

Michael flushes with humiliation, and he wishes Louis wouldn’t have brought up that particularly embarrassing snippet of information. It’s true that he’s had trouble sleeping in the weeks following the banner incident. It’s also true that sometimes tears were involved, but hearing Louis say it out loud, proclaiming it for the entire world to hear, makes Michael feel open and vulnerable and raw in the worst of ways. He kind of wants to disappear right into one of the voids.

Calum glances at Michael then back at Louis. He must feel the tension overwhelming Michael right now—they’re pressed so closely together he can probably hear Michael’s heart beating in his chest—and Calum’s hand finds Michael’s in his lap. He threads his fingers through Michael’s. It’s an unspoken reminder of _forever_ that has Michael’s hand curling against his, palm-to-palm.

“Yeah, well, where we you half of an hour ago when Finn and Archer attacked him outside of the Room of Requirements?” challenges Calum.

It’s the mortal blow to Louis’s anger. He and Louis both know this. Calum watches victoriously as Louis wilts before him. Louis glances toward Zayn, alarmed, then rests his attention on Michael. When he speaks, he sounds much less angry than the last time he had spoken. He sounds almost scared instead.

“They got to you? The bastards got to you? Fuck, Michael. I’m so sorry.”

Michael looks between Zayn and Louis. He’s confused, mostly, but there is also a part of him that is delighted that Louis sounds genuine in his misguided apology. He thinks back to their conversation yesterday and thinks that, maybe, they really are concerned with Michael’s happy ending.

“It’s not your fault,” he says, because it isn’t. “I’m fine. Cal took care of it—he, er, blasted the entire corridor practically. Surprised you didn’t hear it.”

“Silencing spell,” explains Calum. Michael’s attention snaps to him, curiosity nearly burning him alive, and Calum reads Michael’s eagerness like a book. He gives Michael a smile that is full of so much adoration Michael almost has to look away. “The spell I used had a form of a silencing spell ingrained in it that contains the noise to the concentrated area. I’ll have to teach you it—or maybe we’ll get Luke’s brother to do it, because I’m obviously not an expert at it.”

Michael’s going to hold him to this promise, too, even if the underlying stipulation is that he’s friends, or at least on speaking terms with, Luke again. He’s still mad at Luke and at Ashton and at Calum, of course, but he’s reached the breaking point. If he is taking this leap with Calum, it only makes sense that he’ll have to take it with Ashton and Luke soon. The idea of learning something from Luke’s brother—a wizard who quite possibly might judge Michael on the very same grounds Luke himself did—is both exciting and terrifying.

“Wait,” says Zayn, directing the conversation away from Calum’s spellwork and back to the original topic. “Are you sure this is what you want Michael? To trust him again?”

Michael hears what Zayn doesn’t say—the _to give him the chance to hurt you again?_ —and he appreciates Zayn’s concern. He does, because Zayn has been so, so good at having his back over the last few weeks that he couldn’t imagine a scenario where Zayn didn’t make sure Michael was one hundred percent ready to give Calum a shot again.

“Yeah,” says Michael. He doesn’t look at Zayn when he answers, because he can’t take his eyes off Calum. “Yeah, I’m totally sure.”

The smile that bursts onto Calum’s face is worth every bit of courage it takes for Michael to stand up against Louis’s dissatisfaction. Calum squeezes his hand, and Michael squeezes back. The rational part of Michael’s brain knows it’s nothing more than a friendly gesture. The larger part of his brain—the part of him that is committed to the fact that Calum Hood is bloody attractive—imagines that it means more to Calum, that it means exactly what it does to Michael.

“All right, then,” says Louis, folding quicker than Michael’s ever known him to. It’s startling, so Michael looks away from Calum to see Louis stand up from the table. “If that’s what you want, we’ll respect it.”

Michael nods, unsure of how else to respond. That’s okay, though. Louis doesn’t want anything else from him. Louis turns to Calum instead. He looks properly threatening, like a man who isn’t at all afraid to use every dangerous spell in his arsenal at the flip of a switch.

“This is your last chance, Hood. Don’t fuck it up.”

“I won’t,” promises Calum, immediately and without cowering at the lethal glint in Louis eyes. Michael is proud of his bravery. “Don’t even waste your breath, Tomlinson.”

Louis snorts and follows it up with a grin. It’s the closest thing to approval Calum is going to get from Louis for a while to come, but it’s a lot less painful than Michael anticipated it would be. Louis catches Michael’s eyes, and he nods once. It’s a silent _I’ve got your back_. He nudges Zayn’s shoulder.

“C’mon, Malik. We’ve got quidditch practice. The captain’ll make us do laps if we’re late.”

“You’re the captain,” grumbles Zayn, but he leaves his partially-finished pudding nonetheless as he stands up next to Louis. His and Louis’s plates disappear. New ones appear in their place, ready for the next students to sit down for a meal. “I’m not sure you can make yourself do laps.”

Louis considers it then grins devilishly at Zayn. “True, but that doesn’t mean you’re safe from the laps.”

“I hate you, Tomlinson,” says Zayn, darkly, but he follows Louis out of the Great Hall. He throws up a wave at Calum and Michael on his way out.

As soon as they’re gone, Michael remembers his hunger. It seems twice as bad now, and he can’t fill his plate quickly enough. He reaches across Calum for a chicken leg. He’d be self-conscious of his table manners, but Calum isn’t hesitant at all to crowd into Michael’s personal space. Besides, Calum isn’t a pureblood. He probably doesn’t give a damn about the etiquette Michael’s mean caretaker had drilled into Michael as a child.

“Did I say thank you?” asks Michael after they’ve got their plates loaded down with food, and they’re halfway through their meal. Michael, in particular, is eager to eat, having slept right through breakfast like he always does. “Because I don’t think I did, but I should have, because you saved my arse back there with Finn and Archer and then with Madam Pomfrey.”

“Madam Pomfrey loves me,” says Calum. It’s true. Michael doubts there’s a student she loves more in the entire school. Calum can get away with everything as far as she is concerned. “But, no, you didn’t say thank you. You, er, didn’t really have to. Agreeing to eat lunch with me was enough.”

“It wasn’t,” says Michael, and Calum makes a noise of disagreement in his throat. Michael ignores it. “Because you really didn’t have to do anything.”

“But I did, Mikey.”

Michael wants to argue with him more, wants to point out that Calum didn’t owe Michael anything. That it had been Michael who had told Calum to stay away, so Calum hadn’t been obliged to do anything. But he isn’t given the chance.

Luke and Ashton sit down in the vacant seats across from them, and the previous conversation ends just like that. It’s awkward—the air thick with tension—for a long moment.

“Er, do you mind us sitting here?” asks Ashton.

He’s tentative about his question, deferring to Michael, and Michael thinks it’s awful that things are so broken between them all.

“No, it’s fine,” he says, gently, and he wants to smile at the immediate face-splitting grin that appears on Ashton’s face. “I mean, that’s what friends do, isn’t it?”

Ashton knocks over his goblet of pumpkin juice in surprise. It splashes out onto the table, rushing to the edge and making a general mess. Ashton pays it no mind, choosing instead to stare at Michael in awe.

“Are you…?”

Michael swallows the spit that’s gathered in his mouth. Calum’s hand is still in his, so he squeezes it as he gathers his courage. This is it. It’s all or nothing. It should be terrifying, opening himself back up to heartache, but it’s not. Perhaps it’s because it is easier to say the second time. Or maybe it’s easier because he looks at Ashton the entire time and only gives Luke a quick, cursory glance.

“You wanted to be my best friend, didn’t you?”

“Yes,” says Ashton, and it’s more like the intake of a breath, “but—”

“But nothing. I’m still mad, you know, but it’s not the end of the world. I’m willing to give this a shot again, if that’s what you lot want.”

“It’s all we’ve ever wanted,” answers Ashton. He’s grinning so widely he can hardly speak. “This is, like, the greatest thing ever.”

 _Yeah_ , thinks Michael, _it is_.

“But, first, er, I want to give you this—properly,” says Luke, speaking for the first time.

He chews on his bottom lip as he produces a tiny vial of rainbow colored potion. He sets it down on the table right in front of Michael, barely centimeters away from the spilled pumpkin juice. Michael stares at it, horror churning in his stomach. His hand goes slack in Calum’s grip. He doesn’t know what Luke is playing at.

“You, er, didn’t give me a chance to explain earlier, but this is the antidote to the hex on your hair. This’ll return it to its natural color,” says Luke. His words run together in his rush to speak, eager to get everything out before Michael misreads the situation again. His cheeks are a pretty pink color. “I’m sorry, by the way. It wasn’t very nice of me in the first place, and I should have given this to you ages ago.”

Michael brushes his fingers through the tips of his green hair. He sighs, feeling overwhelmingly stupid for all of his fruitless research when the awful truth is that he might have never gotten rid of the color on his own. He never really had a chance, if this is the only solution. Luke may be at the top of the class in potions, but Michael’s potioneering is mediocre at best.

Still, though, Michael recognizes the peace offering for what it is—for what he should have realized it was earlier—and he knows the significance of the moment before him. This is Luke telling him he is enough. This is Luke looking past his prejudices. This is Luke finally seeking Michael’s friendship.

It’s Michael’s choice to take it or not.

In the end, it’s an easy decision. Of course, it is. He might have never been enough for Luke, but he has always been easy for Luke. He grabs the potion off the table and uncaps it, holding it up like a toast. Luke’s eyes grow comically wide across from him. Michael grins.

“Cheers.”

He throws back the potion to a three-part chorus of horrified _Michael, no!_ ’s. They come too late. He swallows down the rainbow colored liquid in one quick drink, and the world goes black.


	18. Chapter 18

“Ow.”

Everything hurts. Michael’s head is pounding. His throat feels like it has been set on fire. His mouth is certainly dry enough to attest to that. When he blinks open his eyes, he squinches them back shut. Everything is too bright. There is an ever-persistent buzzing noise in his ears, and he feels like death. Plain and simple death.

“Fuck,” he adds after moment. Or maybe years, because he feels like he hasn’t spoken in that long. He counts to five, slow and steady, before he chances his eyes open again. It’s better this time. He doesn’t immediately feel like his eyeballs are going to incinerate against the too-bright light, and he keeps them open long enough to make out a dark blob above him.

It takes his eyes a few seconds longer than it probably should to adjust. When they do, the dark blob turns out to be Calum, face anxious and framed by the bright light above him that cast shadows across his brown skin. The shadows emphasize the worry lines marring his face, the crinkles in the corners of his eyes.  They don’t touch his smile, though, and it’s as full and wide as ever. He ducks down to throw both of his arms around Michael’s shoulders, crawling into the bed with Michael and laying on top of him. His fingers dig into Michael’s skin, so hard they’re liable to leave marks for hours to come, but Michael doesn’t complain. He can’t with Calum practically sobbing into his neck and Calum’s lips warm against his collar bone.

“You scared the hell out of me, Mikey. Please, don’t ever do that again.”

Michael’s breath catches in his throat, and he chokes around a mouthful of Calum’s hair. Calum holds him closer, unwilling to pull away for any reason whatsoever. Michael doesn’t complain. He likes the feel of Calum’s arms around him. They’re strong and grounding, and Michael is still struggling to remember exactly why he’s in here in the first place. When he finally does recall, he groans to himself.

“Please, don’t make me take any more of Luke’s potions.”

Calum laughs. It’s sounds a little wet, like he’s possibly still crying, too, but Michael thinks the sound is beautiful.

“You’re not supposed to drink every potion you’re handed, you know,” says Ashton, voice colored with amusement. He is grinning down at Michael and Calum, from his seat a conjured chair. He is holding one of Michael’s hands—the one that isn’t trapped underneath Calum—and his grip is as tight as Calum’s hug. “Potions one-oh-one.”

“Is that a thing? I must’ve missed that day of class,” says Michael, his reply rolling easily off his tongue.

He is struck by how much he missed this camaraderie with Ashton, by how much he flat-out _missed_ Ashton. Bright and sunshiney, Ashton may have been and may always be loyal to Calum and Luke, but there’s a part of him that must be loyal to Michael, too. There has to be, or else he wouldn’t be holding Michael’s hand in a death grip right now if there isn’t.

“Missed the last three of them, too,” says Ashton, and Michael winces at the amount of time he’s been asleep for. “Don’t worry, though. Lukey and I have already taken care of you in potions. We didn’t figure it was a good idea to trust you on your own with them.”

“Be nice, Ash,” murmurs Calum, the sound of his voice barely escaping the skin of Michael’s neck.

“’M always nice,” says Ashton. He lets his smile finally fall from his face, and Michael can see the exhaustion in his cheeks. There are bags underneath his eyes, belying the little amount of sleep he’s gotten, and Michael feels a spike of guilt for making them lose sleep over someone like him.

“Stop it, Mikey,” slurs Calum, and he pats Michael’s chest. It’s probably supposed to be a friendly slap. Calum barely musters any force behind it. “I can hear you thinking. Whatever it is, you’re worth it.”

“How did you—”

“’M psychic,” says Calum, and he lets that stand for the span of three seconds before he gives into a short, exhausted bout of laughter. “I dunno. You just went all tense, and I don’t like you thinking bad things about yourself.”

“And, er, you—I mean—you kind of talked in your sleep?” adds Ashton, fidgeting like he wants to look anywhere but at Michael but not daring to tear his eyes away. He’s cheeks are flushed. A shimmer of self-hatred shines ugly in his eyes. “Like a lot.”

Michael’s heart skips a beat. Calum’s weight on top of him feels like a pile of stones pressing him to death. He kind of wants to disappear right now—and he could, he knows, but, for once, the voids would cause more trouble than he’s trying to escape. He doesn’t exactly want to explain to Madam Pomfrey how he slipped past her and ended halfway across the castle without someone noticing him. He’s not even sure he is in any state to leave his bed right now, anyway. He would probably fall face-first right onto the floor, and not even all of the portals Hogwarts has to offer him can save him from the utter humiliation of being too weak to run away.

It is too much, knowing his lips were lose as he slept dreamlessly on. He knows the diseased thoughts that run rampant through his mind. He knows the truth in those diseases, too. He knows that nobody likes him, besides maybe Calum and Ashton and Luke and, possibly, Louis and Zayn. He knows it’s because he’s a dirty Slytherin right down to the core, because if he were anything else—if he were worthy of the friendship he always seems to be chasing but never getting, not really—he wouldn’t have had to wait until Calum charged in like a knight in shining armor to have friends. He wouldn’t have had to wait until Louis and Zayn pulled their heads out of their arses to have friends. He would have had them from the very beginning, and Calum would have never, ever let Michael push him away when they were tiny first years scared of everything.

Michael has managed to silence most of his doubts over the last few weeks. He has managed to delude himself into thinking that he could be friends with Calum and Ashton and Luke and then, when that went up in flames, he managed to further delude himself into thinking he was good enough to be taken under Louis’s and Zayn’s wings. He wasn’t. Not really. There is a part of Michael that is terrified that all of these people are just tugging him along for the hell of it. That they’re all waiting for him to trip and fall so that they don’t have to pick him up again.

It’s a poisoned voice, yes, but Michael can’t silence it.

The truth is, they’ve all left him alone before. Calum left him on his own when they were eleven and then again, alongside Luke and Ashton, whenever that awful banner hung in the Great Hall. Louis and Zayn stood by for four and a half years with barely a care whatsoever as Michael lost his own battles against their Slytherin housemates. It is unfair, probably, to believe the worst in these people who have been kind enough to extend him their friendship lately, but nobody has ever wanted to be friends with Michael before. It’s hard to believe, even now weeks later, that he’s not going to mess it all up. That he’s not going to end up alone in the end after all, no matter how much it seems like everybody—Calum and Luke and Ashton, especially—wants nothing more than to be his friend now.

It’s his burden to bear, though, and nobody else’s, so Michael would never in a million years dare to say his diseased thoughts out loud—but apparently his unconscious brain doesn’t have such reservations. He feels sick at his stomach. He wishes he could blame it on the potion.

“What’d I—”

Michael stops. He clears his throat, and he wets his lips, debating whether or not he wants to know the truth. Vaguely, he thinks he’d kill for a glass of water right now. He considers ignoring this revelation entirely—considers pretending like he doesn’t care so that maybe the others won’t either—but he knows that would be fruitless. He needs to know what he said, especially if it’s bad enough to cause Calum to cling tighter to him and to bring such an ugly expression of self-hatred to Ashton’s face.

In the end, it’s all Michael can do to force out, “What’d I say?”

But neither Calum nor Ashton come forth with an answer. Calum, for his part, digs his fingers even deeper into Michael’s back, and he pushes his face farther into Michael’s neck, his nose pressed flat. Ashton averts his eyes from Michael’s. He chews on his lips like a little kid who knows he’s lying to his parents.

Dread builds in Michael’s chest. He repeats his question. Again, he’s given the same response. Neither Ashton nor Calum seem any more likely to speak this time than they had last. Michael’s mind runs wild with the possibilities—from something as simple and mundane as how he doesn’t want to hurt anymore to something as deep and guarded as the fact that Michael might be head over heels in love with Calum and has been for a while, since third year, practically. It could be anything in between. Michael isn’t sure what he’d prefer it to be.

“What did I say?” asks Michael again, and this time he forces as much bite behind his words as he can manage. Fear is coursing through his veins. His heart pounds in his ears, and the dryness of his mouth is the least of his problems.

Calum and Ashton remain quiet, but it doesn’t matter. Michael gets his answer anyway.

“It was begging, mostly.”

It is Luke who speaks. Michael jumps, startled, and whips his head toward the door where Luke is hovering uncertainly just past the threshold. He doesn’t make any attempt to move any closer. Privacy isn’t an issue. There are no other patients in here, and Madam Pomfrey has been meeting with Professor McGonagall for the past hour. Luke, therefore, makes no attempt to lower his voice.

“You were fevered out of your mind, and you were pleading with us to—”

Luke trails off. In that second, Michael takes the opportunity to get a good look at Luke. He’s as visibly exhausted as Ashton and Calum. There are bags underneath his eyes, too, and his skin is a near sickly pallor color. He’s wearing an old pair of trousers with mud on the knees of them. His jumper is in no better of a shape. It’s an old blue and white Ravenclaw one that looks like, through all of the wear, it must have originally belonged to one of his elder brothers. There is a smear of dirt all down the front of it, too.

Michael wonders what he has been doing, wonders what was more important than being here when he woke up. But as soon as those thoughts enter his mind, he pushes them away. Luke’s prior whereabouts are infinitely less important than whatever it is Michael said in his fevered state. At least since Luke is the only one willing to speak.

“To—to what?” asks Michael, forcing out the words like vomit. They taste just as bad on his tongue. The truth is that he doesn’t really think he wants to know, but he also thinks he has to know.

Luke glances at Calum then Ashton, and when neither of them seem inclined to elaborate, Luke bites the bullet once more. He turns back to Michael. He holds his gaze, and his voice is flat in a manner that belies how much he’d rather talk about anything else in this moment in time when he finally answers.

“You begged us to tell you that you weren’t worthless—that—that you _mattered_.”

All of blood drains from Michael’s face. Had he not already been lying on his back, he would’ve fallen to the ground underneath the weight of Luke’s revelation. He tries to curl his fingers into fists to take some of the brunt of the brutal honesty hanging in the air between them all, but one hand is still trapped underneath Calum, and Ashton has tightened his grip on Michael’s other. He thinks he might vomit for real now.

“I—I—”

But Michael doesn’t really know what else to say beyond his stutters. The entire world is crashing in on him, like waves against a rocky coast in the middle of a hurricane. He doesn’t stand a chance against  the force of it all. Out of all of the things he could have feverishly declared, it had to be this. It had to be the core of his very fears. It had to be his deepest, darkest secret, because somewhere in the beyond, there’s a fucking deity who is getting its kicks and giggles from the state of Michael’s life. It isn’t enough that nobody has ever wanted to be friends with him. He has to go and point out that he’s never mattered to anybody, either.  

“ _Fucking hell_ , _Mikey_ ,” screeches Luke.

Michael jumps, startled, at the sound of Luke’s voice. It’s raw and vulnerable and devastated like Michael has never before heard it. Vaguely, Michael recognizes the fact that Luke has only ever called Michael by his friendly endearment one other time, and that was in the few stress-filled moments after Calum had free fallen hundreds of meters from his broom. That moment replays like a ghost of a memory, brief, in Michael’s mind.

“You bloody matter—more than any of us, in fact—and it’s a damn shame that we— _that_ _I_ —haven’t made an effort to prove to you that you do.”

“It’s not—”

“Don’t you bloody say it’s not my fucking job to make sure that you know you matter. It is, dammit, and it especially is from here on out. It’s all of ours,” says Luke, nearly spitting out the words in his fervor. He looks so much smaller than he actually is, standing all alone silhouetted against the large, double wooden doors, but his words make him seem larger than the demons plaguing Michael’s mind. “I’m done. D’you hear me? I’m so done with buying into stupid prejudices. I’m so done with people being mean to you. I know I’m the last person who has the right to hate others for being mean to you—I know it’s hypocritical—but fuck it. I don’t care.”

Luke loses steam for a moment, nearly collapsing right before them all. His eyes are so, so big, even from all the way across the hospital wing, and Michael has never, ever wanted to hug Luke as much as he does right now. Michael thinks about that night in Gryffindor tower when his thoughts had taken a dark turn and Luke had cuddled up against him in his sleep, eager to comfort Michael. He thinks that maybe, just maybe, that was the real Luke all along. That this is the real Luke before him now. That Luke is nothing less than fiercely loyal and ferociously protective.

“A fucking week, Mikey. We listened to you blabber on in your nightmares about wishing you mattered for _a fucking week_ ,” surmises Luke, his voice small.

He begins to cross the distance between him and the others for the first time since he came in. He draws up short of Michael, gazing down at him underneath Calum. His hand twitches toward Michael like he wants to touch him but isn’t sure he’s allowed. Michael thinks that is preposterous, that Luke shouldn’t have such reservations. He wiggles his hand out from underneath Calum—and Calum makes a quiet grunt of dissatisfaction of having to separate from Michael, even as slightly as this—and he reaches for Luke’s hand. Luke meets him halfway. His fingers are cool but burning red, as if he’s just gotten in from outside.

“You matter,” says Luke, the words simple but brutally honest.

Michael squeezes his hand, and he tries for a smile. He doesn’t have the heart to tell Luke he doesn’t believe him, not now at least, but he appreciates so much that Luke tells him he does anyway. Luke smiles sadly back at him like he knows exactly where Michael’s thoughts have gone—like he knows that Michael doesn’t believe him. He tightens his grip on Michael’s hand like it’s a silence promise that he is going to do everything in his power to make Michael believe him one day.

“I’m sorry about the potion, by the way,” says Luke, changing the subject, because the tension in the room is thick between them all and Michael doesn’t look inclined to talk about the previous conversation any longer. Luke’s gaze flashes up to Michael’s hair. The ghost of a smile tugs at the corner of his lips. “I didn’t expect you to actually drink it.”

It’s a horrible attempt at humor, but it loosens the knots in Michael’s chest. He chuckles a couple of times in line with the joke. That’s all it takes for the others to give a halfhearted short laugh, also. Michael knows, as well as the others, that the previous conversation isn’t over—he doubts it’ll ever be over until Luke and Calum and Ashton are satisfied that Michael does in fact believe he matters. He appreciates that Luke knows when to let a conversation lie.

“He got a bitchin’ shade of blue out of the deal, though,” says Calum. His voice is partially muffled by Michael’s shoulder, because he doesn’t bother raising up to speak. He cranes his head so that he can look at Michael, though, and Michael feels more than he sees Calum’s face-splitting grin. “I knew it’d really bring out your eyes.”

Michael feels his face heat up at Calum’s compliment. It’s nice to hear such kind words fall from Calum’s lips. Michael’s stomach flip-flops, butterflies fluttering. He wants to bottle up Calum’s words and keep them safe forever. He prays that Calum can’t hear the way his heart rate has sped up. He shifts uncomfortably underneath Calum, and he forces himself to focus on the first part of Calum’s statement.

“What are you talking about?” he asks as horror starts to settle in his stomach instead. “I thought Luke’s potion was supposed to fix my hair?”

“It got rid of the green?” says Luke, but it comes out more like a question. He looks to Ashton for help, like he always does. “Besides, I can’t really control what happens when you don’t follow directions.”

“You didn’t give me directions! You let me drink it,” argues Michael, though he knows he is being a little unfair to Luke who had, after he realized what was going on, tried to stop Michael from ingesting the vial of rainbow colored potion. 

“Madam Pomfrey thinks it should wear off in a few weeks,” says Ashton, jumping to Luke’s aid.

He whips out his wand and conjures a mirror. He flips it over so that Michael can look at himself.  Michael’s hair is far away from Michael’s natural hair color as it could be. It is blue, a deep, dark shade of blue that is as pure as the color of the Ravenclaw house. It stand out stark against his pale skin, and Calum is right: the blue offsets his green eyes, making them sparkle an even brighter color than usual. Michael thinks he might be in love with the color. It’s better than the atrocious green Luke had hexed him with, at least.

“If you like it, Lukey and I found a neat charm that will make it a bit more permanent, and you’d be able to change the color of it, too,” adds Ashton after a moment.

“This is brilliant,” he says. He really means it. He sees Luke grin proudly next to him, but he looks to Ashton instead. “Teach me the spell.”

Ashton laughs. He vanishes the mirror but promises, “Later—when you’re out of here and actually up to doing magic.”

Michael nods. When he takes a second to assess himself, he has to admit that he doesn’t feel up to doing any magic right now. He feels drained. He doubts he’d be able to do much more than preliminary sparks if he were holding a wand. He turns to Luke instead, ever conscious of the familiar and comforting weight of Calum on top of him.

“Why are you covered in dirt?”

Luke blushes right to the tips of his ears.

“McGonagall gave him detention every night until you woke up, you know, because of the whole potion incident,” says Calum, a gleeful, yet teasing, lithe to his voice. He nuzzles into Michael’s neck as if he’s trying to find the perfect spot to lay his head. “Tell him what you gotta do. G’ahead. Tell him.”

Luke grumbles, reaching over to pinch Calum with his free hand. Calum jumps and presses even closer to Michael, tucking himself underneath Michael’s chin. He glares one-eyed at Luke, but he doesn’t retaliate.

“I’m cleaning out the quidditch locker rooms. Thank Merlin you woke up. I started the Slytherin last night, and it’s horrible,” he says, making a face. “I thought Slytherins were supposed to be, I dunno, clean?”

Michael laughs. “What gave you that idea?”

“Your common room is spotless,” says Luke. “There isn’t spilled ink everywhere like there is in my common room, and I’m not afraid of sitting in dirt like I am in the Hufflepuff one. I mean, I thought Slytherins had an image to uphold? Doesn’t cleanliness go along with that?”

“Not if they know a non-Slytherin is going to be picking up after them,” says Michael, cheekily, and he laughs when Luke scrunches up his face again. “I wouldn’t trust the Slytherin dungeon too much, if I were you. My housemates have a habit of pissing off the elves—Louis, mostly, when he leaves pranks laying around.”

Luke’s face sobers at the mention of Louis, and if Michael had been looking anywhere else, he would have missed it. That isn’t the case, though. He catches the minute downturn of the corners of Luke’s lips, and he feels Calum go rigid on top of him, and Ashton’s fingers dig a little deeper into the back of Michael’s hand. Michael gets a sinking feeling in the pit of his stomach. Before he has a chance to ask about it, Luke speaks up, but he doesn’t dare look Michael in the eyes as he does.

“It was Finn and Archer, wasn’t it?”

The entire world stops turning, time screeching to a halt. Michael stares at Luke in horror. The sinking feeling in the pit of his stomach only gets worse. He thinks that maybe he should say something. Confirm it or deny it or play it off like it’s nothing. His voice gets caught somewhere in his throat, but Luke doesn’t wait for a response before he clarifies.

“The banner incident—it was them, wasn’t it? And that thing with Calum at the quidditch match? It was Finn and Archer, too.”

They stop being questions, Luke’s accusations. He finally meets Michael’s eyes, and there’s fire in his own. His grip tightens painfully on Michael’s hand. Michael still doesn’t speak, but he’s sure his silent horror is enough of a confirmation. He doubts Luke really needed much of an affirmation in the first place.

“You didn’t tell us. Why didn’t you tell us?”

Michael supposes Luke means for his statements to be harsh—means for them to be accusations like the ones before them have been—but they’re not. They’re timid, like Luke is hurting himself with every word he utters. Still, Michael says nothing. He can’t. He doesn’t know what Luke wants from him.

“You could have told us, you know,” says Ashton gently when Luke falls silent and doesn’t speak again. Michael’s gaze darts to him. Ashton offers him a sad smile that Michael supposes is supposed to be reassuring. “We would have taken your side. We would have protected you, if we’d known.”

 _It wouldn’t have mattered_ , Michael thinks but doesn’t say, _because I was trying to protect you_.

“Instead, you went to Louis and Zayn—and, I mean, that’s fine. We’re glad you went to somebody—but, fuck, _Mikey_ , don’t you think we would have been the frontline of your defense? That we would have believed you over them if we’d known from the very beginning who hung that damn banner in the Great Hall?” says Calum, gently. He adds on, after a second or two, a quiet, “Because we would have been.”

But Michael doesn’t hear much past the names Louis and Zayn.

“I never told them anything, either,” he says. “I was—I was trying to protect you all. I couldn’t tell anybody or Finn and Archer would have—they _hurt_ you even more, and I couldn’t let that happen. I didn’t tell Louis and Zayn anything.”

“Then why are Louis and Zayn spending so much time talking to them?” asks Luke. He sounds genuinely curious and not at all accusatory like he did earlier when he spoke. “And why did Louis tell Finn last night after quidditch practice he knew everything and that it was okay as long as they didn’t do it again?”

Michael’s heart stops beating in his chest, and Luke’s words wash over him like a shower of lava from an erupting volcano. Michael pushes against Calum, desperate to sit up because the world feels like it’s swirling down a drain, but Calum doesn’t him go. He clings even tighter, frantic to hold Michael together when he feel him fall apart at the seams. Luke keeps babbling on.

"That's what he said. I know it is. I mean, I _know_ what I heard. I was in the next bloody room scrubbing who-the-fuck-knows-what off the dirty shower floor without magic, and they weren't being very quiet, so I could hear them, and Louis—"

“Wh—What?” Michael gasps out, interrupting Luke. It’s the best he can do, but it's enough to stun Luke to silence. Michael's breaths come in short spurts. He barely remembers how to draw air into his lungs, guided only by the weight of Calum on top of him, by the steady rhythm of the rise and fall of Calum’s chest against Michael’s own.

“Shit. You didn’t tell them,” says Luke, eyes widening in alarm. He looks frantically up at Ashton, who is as white as a sheet. “Ash, they— _they knew_. They knew this entire time, and they didn’t fucking care.”

Ashton doesn’t look like he knows what to say in response, so he doesn’t say anything. He holds Michael’s hand with both of his like his life depends on it, and he meets Michael’s wide, scared eyes. In the end, it’s Calum who speaks the words that soothes the storm blowing over Michael. He cranes his head until he can reach Michael’s jaw and presses the lightest of kisses there—a promise soaking into Michael’s skin.

“But we care.”


	19. Chapter 19

Louis and Zayn drop by the hospital wing for a visit early the next morning while Madam Pomfrey is off to a quick breakfast. Michael himself is still asleep when they sneak in through the double doors. He isn’t expecting visitors until after breakfast when Calum promised he would stop by and sit through the morning with him. Michael had told him not to worry, that he’d be fine alone for a few hours while the others attended their classes, but Calum had waved him off. Luke would take all the notes Calum needed for his first and only class of the morning. Apparently, it was a schedule they had worked out and stuck to over the past week. Michael hadn’t pushed the subject anymore.

So Michael isn’t expecting the nefarious voice of Louis Tomlinson whisper into his ear, “Morning, Michael.”

Michael jumps, startled into consciousness. His hand automatically reaches for his wand that is tucked underneath his pillow. His fingers curl around the handle of it before he realizes how _weakened_ he still feels and how stupid it is to resort to magic. Louis and Zayn are his friends. He lets go of his wand. He doesn’t need it.

“Heard you were awake— _finally_ ,” adds Louis.

He straightens back up and grins devilishly down at Michael. Next to him, Zayn offers Michael a one-sided smile that belies how little of an effort he put into restraining his best friend’s antics. Louis babbles on about how much he has worried about Michael and how Michael shoulder never, ever be trusted with potions again, but Michael hardly hears a word he says.

Louis and Zayn are both dressed in their quidditch robes, and Luke’s words from last night come rushing back to him. Michael sits up in his bed. He struggles a little bit, because he is tired, and his muscles aren’t used to being used after a week-straight of resting, but he shrugs Zayn off when Zayn moves to help him. Zayn clasps his hands together in front of him and doesn’t move to catch Michael whenever he nearly topples out of bed.

“I’m surprised you cared,” says Michael after he finally sits upright. That had taken much more effort than it should have. He makes a mental note to ask Madam Pomfrey if that’s a bad sign, if maybe his body isn’t recovering as well as it should be. Right now, he has bigger problems than his own health.

“Of course, we care,” says Louis, indignantly. “What the hell would make you think we wouldn’t care? We’re your friends.”

“Are you?” challenges Michael, because he is tired of people saying they’re his friends but not acting like it when it matters. Calum and Luke and Ashton had done it, and it had nearly killed Michael. Now, Louis and Zayn are doing it, and Michael doesn’t think he can handle it a second time. He’d much rather not have friends. At least then he would know where he stood instead of getting blind-sighted every time he turned around.

“Are you mental?” demands Louis. “Honestly, what would make you think we aren’t friends? Have you—have you been talking to Luke?”

Michael gets a sinking feeling in the pit of his stomach. He feels like he is standing on the edge of a cliff overlooking the sea, and the ground is starting to give underneath his feet. He has no other choice than to fall, than to crash into the rocky shore hundreds of meters below.

“Funny you should mention that,” he says. His voice comes out a lot firmer than he thinks it will. It makes him feel braver, this illusion that he’s holding everything together when really he just wants to fall apart and demand to know why everybody is mean to him and doesn’t keep their promises to be friends with him.

“What’s that supposed to mean?” asks Louis.

Michael wants to answer—wants to say that Louis and Zayn are supposed to be his friends, that friends don’t speak to each other like this—but he isn’t given a chance. Zayn’s question parallels Louis’s and usurps Michael’s attention.

“What did Luke tell you?”

There is a dangerous tone to Zayn’s voice. For the first time, it’s directed at Michael, and it makes Michael’s toes curl. Michael thinks of the time Zayn had stood up for him in the Hufflepuff common room and hadn’t flinched as he’d gone face-to-face with Luke’s wand, his own weapon left alone in the pocket of his robes. Times have certainly changed since then. Because now it isn’t Luke loud and angry against Zayn’s cold, deadly tone. It’s Michael, and Michael feels a shiver of fear run down his spine.

But Michael shouldn’t be scared. He shouldn’t be. Because Zayn is his friend—or he is supposed to be. This isn’t the Zayn Michael knows. It can’t be. Because the Zayn that had found Michael in the nook of the library only a few weeks ago and prompted Michael to _trust us, okay?_ would never in a million years act so callously against him. But here he is, dangerous and demanding and deadly.

Michael has spent the past four and a half years learning how to survive in a sea of people who hate him. The fact that Zayn is supposed to like him shouldn’t matter. Michael knows how to protect himself. Michael _has_ to protect himself.

So Michael pretends like he is brave enough to stand up to Zayn, and he says, voice equally as cold, “All about your good friends Finn and Archer.”

Zayn mumbles a string of profanities. The color drains from his face, but the dangerous glint in his eyes remain. Michael reaches for his wand. He doesn’t let go this time. Zayn’s gaze flits down to it, and his own hand twitches for the wand sticking out of his quidditch practice robes. Michael wonders if he will use it.

“Luke should mind his own business,” says Zayn.

“At least Luke had the guts to tell me the truth.” 

Louis snorts, drawing Michael’s attention back to him. He twists his lips into a triumphant smirk that looks ugly on his face. His eyes twinkle with victory, and he probably intends the words that fall from his mouth to deliver the mortal blow to discredit anything Luke Hemmings has ever said.

“Tell me. Was that before or after he kindly neglected to tell you his entire family is dead because of yours? That he hates you on your name alone?”

A horrible realization dawns upon Michael, and Louis’s victory is actually his defeat. Icy-cold hurt curls in Michael’s chest. His heart stutters. His breaths come in short spurts, like no matter how hard he works to draw air in, his lungs have forgotten what do to with it underneath the weight of Louis’s latest statement. He looks from Louis to Zayn and back again. They’ve played him. This entire time, they lead him on with the promise of friendship while they’ve treated him like a pawn. He feels like a fool.

“You knew the entire time why Luke hated me,” says Michael, deliberately slow so that every syllable packs its own punch. “And you didn’t tell me.”

“It was for your own good,” says Zayn.

Michael flinches, reeling back in the bed. Zayn’s words slam into him like the Hogwarts Express speeding down the tracks. Zayn says them so casually, bypassing any attempt to disagree with Michael’s accusation. He pairs them with a shrug, and Michael’s stomach churns.

“Everything we’ve done has been for your own good,” adds Louis.

He doesn’t sound sorry. Neither of them do. It hurts, their carelessness. Michael wants to cry, but he won’t. He’s done crying over people who don’t give a damn about him.

“Like telling Finn it is all right to be mean to me as long as he doesn’t do it again?” challenges Michael in the same steady voice he has adopted this entire time. It is surprisingly easy to stick to it, no matter how much he wants to scream at them to just _leave me alone if you’re not going to be my friend!_

“Dammit, Michael,” snaps Louis. It is the most emotion he has shown this entire time. Anger, Louis can do. Regret, on the other hand, seems to be outside of his capabilities. “We’re just looking out for you! We’re your friends.”

But they’re not. If there is anything Michael has learned over the last few weeks, it is that friends should be honest with one another. Luke and Calum and Ashton didn’t give Michael a chance to explain the banner incident, and they left Michael all alone to get hurt. He can’t get hurt again. Louis and Zayn know. They were the ones who picked up the shattered pieces that were Michael, and they were the ones who criticized Ashton for doing exactly what they’re doing now: fucking Michael over.

Michael is tired of being treated like he doesn’t matter.

“Yeah, well, friends wouldn’t fuck me over the first chance they got,” he says, and he lets bitterness seep into his voice for the first time. He’s overwhelmed with exhaustion even though he has only just woken up for the day. He kind of wants to go back to sleep and pretend like none of this is real—like it’s all just a bad dream, and when he wakes up again everything will be okay, and Louis and Zayn won’t have forsaken Michael for Finn and Archer.

“We’re not fucking you over,” says Louis, quietly with a gloss of desperate stubbornness to his voice. It’s the battle cry of a Slytherin who knows he’s wrong but is clinging to his principles anyhow. “We’re _not_.”

Michael chews on his bottom lip, dropping his gaze to his lap. He feels defeated, tired. He really wants to ask them to leave. He doesn’t. Even now, he can’t find it in himself to be rude to the people who swore to take him underneath their wings—even if that offer of friendship was nothing more than an excuse to treat him like a pawn.

“But you are,” he says, sadly, “and you don’t even care.”

Louis lets out a gasp, like Michael’s words hurt him as much as Zayn’s had hurt Michael earlier. Michael thinks that maybe he should care. That Louis and Zayn promised to protect him, and maybe they didn’t follow through on that promise, but they at least kept him sane long enough to find Calum and Luke and Ashton again, and that has to count for something. It has to.

But it isn’t enough, and neither is Louis’s next statement.

“We _do_ care.”

“Don’t lie to me,” says Michael, glaring up at Louis and then Zayn through watery eyes. He won’t let himself cry—he _won’t_ —but that doesn’t mean that he doesn’t really want to right now. “I deserve better than half-truths.”

Because the thing is, that’s all they’ve ever bothered to give him. That’s all they gave him with Luke, at least, when they could have been upfront about it and saved Michael from getting blind-sighted by Luke’s ill-timed revelation.

“Yeah,” says Zayn, sighing. “You do.”

But he doesn’t make an attempt to give Michael anything more than a half-truth. He doesn’t even attempt to say anything else, to try again to make Michael believe that they care. Neither does Louis, and, in the silence that ensues, Michael wishes he were alone. He wishes it more than he’s ever wished for anything in his life.

But he doesn’t know how to ask Louis and Zayn to leave, not without opening his mouth and demanding to be told the big, bad truth that apparently he isn’t worthy enough to know. He doesn’t want to be mean to Louis and Zayn. They were nice to him when nobody else was, once upon a time, and that has to amount to something.

So Michael doesn’t ask them to leave, and they don’t seem to care enough to sense they aren’t wanted. In the end, Michael’s saving grace comes in the form it has quite often as of late: Calum. The doors split open, creaking loudly on their hinges, and in strolls Calum, dressed in his school uniform with his robe strewn haphazardly over his shoulder.  

Michael has possibly never been so relieved to see Calum. He really needs a hug right now—he feels raw from arguing with Zayn and Louis—and Calum’s hugs are the best, and he knows Calum won’t deny him one.

Ashton and Luke trail in after Calum, loud and boisterous and leaning on each other like they physically can’t walk without constantly touching the other. They’re so wrapped up in one another. It warms Michael’s heart like nothing thus far as this morning, and he’s so glad that they came with Calum that he thinks he might cry. They’re his friends. They’ve messed up in the past, yes, but they’ve swore to do better by him, and they have. They’ve spent the past week sitting by his bedside as he slept. He feels a little safer with them in the same room—which is awful, considering the circumstances, because Louis and Zayn are supposed to be his friends, too.

It’s Calum who notices Zayn’s and Louis’s presences first. He barrels up and stops, eyes wide in surprise. His hand twitches toward the back pocket of his trousers where Michael knows he prefers to keep his wand. Ashton and Luke, oblivious to everything beyond their own tiny world, stumble into Calum’s back. They unleash a flurry of apologies that die almost immediately upon their respective lips as Luke and Ashton, too, take in Louis and Zayn. They straighten into identical defensive stances.

“What are you lot doing here?” asks Calum. He doesn’t have his wand in his hand yet, but he still looks like he is a good two seconds away from drawing it. His gaze flickers to Michael like he is assessing whether or not he should curse Louis and Zayn unprovoked. He looks tempted to.

“Visiting a friend,” says Louis, coolly.

“Funny. You haven’t seen it important enough to visit Michael the entire time he was asleep,” says Calum. “Dunno why you’re trying to play pretend that you’re concerned now.”

“We’ve been concerned the entire time,” says Zayn. “We don’t need you lot to validate our friendship.”

“Probably for the best,” says Ashton. He sounds meaner than Michael has ever heard him. His voice is hard. He looks like he, too, is half of a second away from drawing his wand. Some part of Michael is warmed by the idea that Ashton is angry on his behalf, by the idea that he has friends who are jumping to his aid, no questions asked. “There is nothing to validate from where I stand. You haven’t acted much like Mikey’s friends lately.”

“We haven’t fucked off on him like you lot did,” sneers Louis. His gaze flickers to Ashton’s wand then to Calum’s, both of which are still stowed away in their pockets. Louis seems inclined to reach for his in the thick tension of the room.

“No, you’ve just found new friends,” says Luke. He is the only one brave enough to close the distance between them all. He steps away from Ashton and Calum and purposefully walks to Michael’s bedside, where he stands as a barrier—as a shield—separating Michael from Louis and Zayn. “Let’s talk about that.”

“Fuck off, Hemmings,” snaps Louis. He makes the first move, whipping out his wand and pointing it straight at Luke’s heart. “You don’t know what you’re talking about.”

Luke rolls his eyes, unconcerned by Louis’s threat. “Why don’t you enlighten us? Tell us all about how your friends Finn and Archer—”

The rest of Luke’s taunt is lost to a bright flash of purple light that erupts from the end of Louis’s wand. For a split second, time seems to hang suspended between them. Luke’s eyes are wide with surprise. He reaches for his own wand, but he isn’t quick enough. Michael throws up a soft blue blast of energy that consumes the brunt of Louis’s attack. Purple bleeds into blue until all of the energy is consumed, harmless, and whisked away for Hogwarts to have all to herself.

Time lurches forward. Luke half-turns to Michael, meeting Michael’s eyes with a thousand questions burning in his own. Vaguely, Michael can hear Calum and Ashton jumping to Luke’s aid. That is the very least of his priorities. In that seemingly endless split second, Michael saw the potency behind Louis’s spell—he saw the darkness that would have rooted itself in Luke’s heart and ate at him until he was nothing more than pain encased in human skin—and Michael has never feared the power of magic more than he had right then.

“ _Fuck_ ,” Louis curses

He ignores the way Ashton and Calum bodily pushing him toward the doors, and he fights against them. Michael is, on some level, glad they’re not resorting to magic, too. Maybe they’re shaken up from all of the magic that has been tossed around already. Michael can feel the heavy weight of Louis’s gaze on him. Louis’s voice is shrill.

“I didn’t mean—”

But Michael doesn’t care what Louis did or did not mean. He doesn’t, because Luke is still staring at Michael like he can’t quite believe what just happened, and Michael himself doesn’t know what to do with the last couple of moments, either.

“Just leave, Louis,” says Michael. He can’t look away from Luke, but he wants Louis and Zayn gone. “Please.”

Maybe it’s a testament to how unsteady everything is between Louis and Zayn. Or maybe it’s proof that even Louis knows attacking Luke, however provoked, was a step too far. Or maybe it’s as simple as Louis and Zayn respecting Michael’s choice like friends should, but they leave. There is no more fanfare. Louis stops fighting Ashton and Calum. He and Zayn duck out of the hospital wing. Ashton magicks it shut behind them.

Ashton is at Luke’s side not even two seconds later, but Calum has already beat him. Calum throws his arms around Michael and tugs Luke down to them, and together, the three of them are enveloped in a hug before Ashton even makes it to Michael’s bedside. Ashton snakes one arm around Luke until he’s touching Calum, too, and he nearly strangles Michael with his other arm.

For a long time, nobody says anything. The group hug is a little uncomfortable, and Michael can barely breathe, his face squashed into Calum’s chest as it is, but he doesn’t complain. He feels all over the place in the aftermath of Louis and Zayn. It’s only Calum and Ashton and Luke—his _friends_ —anchoring him right now, and he doesn’t want to let go.

The others don’t either, but, eventually, they untangle themselves enough so that everybody can breathe properly. Calum shifts until he’s mostly seated next to Michael on the bed, but he keeps his arms around Michael like he’s terrified to let go, like he needs to touch Michael as much as Michael needs to touch him. Ashton sits down in the space next to Michael’s feet. He drags Luke with him, pressing Luke’s back to his front and resting his chin on Luke’s shoulder. Luke lets himself be manhandled, but he reaches for Michael’s hand when he’s settled, and he holds it in a death grip.

Together, Michael feels like the four of them are invincible, and Michael really, really needs a bit of invulnerability right now.

“I don’t even know what you did, but thank Merlin you did it,” says Luke, all in one breath like he is still trying to wrap his mind around that stress-filled frozen second in time. “I was certain I was half-gone already.”

So was Michael, and the thought of Luke getting hurt—of Ashton or Calum getting hurt—shakes Michael to his very core. He thinks of that day at the quidditch match when he’d watched Calum free fall hundreds of meters above the ground. He doesn’t know which was more scary. Both, probably, because Michael never, ever wants to relive either of those moments for as long as he lives.

“Yeah, me, too,” says Michael. It’s scary to say out loud, to admit how close he had come to not saving Luke, that he can’t help but to cling tightly to Luke’s hand to remind himself that he was quick enough. That nothing bad happened. That he had just enough time to keep Luke from getting hurt. “But I had you, Lukey. I won’t let you get hurt—any of you.”

“We know you won’t,” says Calum, gentle, into Michael’s ear. He presses a chaste kiss to Michael’s cheek. “We’re not going to let you, either.”

“Yeah, I don’t quite know what we’d do without you,” says Ashton, sincere. He smiles at Michael over Luke’s shoulder, and it wobbles a little, but Michael supposes Ashton is still reeling from Luke’s attack. Michael himself can’t quit replaying it in his mind. “I don’t really know how we survived without you.”

“It doesn’t matter,” says Calum. He rests his head against Michael’s, his cheek pressed against Michael’s own. “We’re keeping you for real this time, no matter what.”

Michael nods, too overcome by emotion—by _friendship_ —to properly respond. He thinks they might all get the idea anyway.

“I’m glad all of you came when you did,” he says, because it is important that he tells them as much. That they know as much.

“We are, too,” says Ashton. He pauses then grins, his face lighting up. “Oh! We brought something. Luke, give it to him.”

Michael  furrows his eyebrows, curious, but he is patient as Luke obliges. Luke digs into his pocket with his free hand. He winces at first and mutters a curse, but, a moment later, he retracts his hand. Newt-the-hedgehog sits proudly in the palm of it. Luke grins at Michael.

“We found him wiggling around in your pocket when Madam Pomfrey was trying to administer an antidote. We’ve been taking really good care of him, I swear,” says Luke. “He sleeps with us up in the Gryffindor dorm—unfortunately right on the pillow between me and Ashton, but Calum made sure there was enough room for Newt, too.”

Luke holds his hand out toward Michael. It’s the distraction they all need from the stressful events over the past few minutes, and everybody relaxes a little in the dissipating tension. They’re not done talking about what just happened, not by a long shot, but they need to separate themselves from it for now.

Michael is so happy to see Newt that he jumps forward to grab him. He’s gentle with Newt as he settle back against Calum. He runs his fingers along Newt’s back, reveling in the familiar comfort of his companion. Newt settles in Michael’s lap, happy underneath Michael’s ministrations. True to Luke’s word, Newt looks like he has been well-cared for. His quills are nice and shiny, and he seems content from being in the others’ care.  

“He likes prickling me,” says Luke, continuing to speak. He stops, scrunching up his nose and looking down at Newt. “Is that a word? I feel like that is a word.”

“Was he scared?” asks Michael, worried. He lets Calum bat his hand out of the way so that Calum can take over petting Newt. Michael looks at Luke instead. “Because he usually only does that when he is frightened.”

“No!” squawks Luke, eyes wide like he is offended Michael could even suggest such a thing. “Newt loves me! He eats from my hand, and he likes the maze I’ve got set up on my desk in the dorm, and he bit Ashton for me when Ashton was being mean.”

“I’m not mean,” says Ashton.

“You stole all of the covers! I was freezing,” says Luke. He is probably aiming for petulant, but the overwhelming fondness saturating his voice undermines his attempt. He grins goofily at Ashton. Michael wonders, not for the first time, where they stand with each other, but he doesn’t ask. The setting is all wrong, and Luke is still speaking anyway. “Newt didn’t want me to freeze to death.”

“You were sleeping between Calum and me. You weren’t going to freeze to death.”

Luke mutters something that sounds a lot like _I totally could have_ , but he drops his case in the next moment when Ashton presses a gentle, open-mouthed kiss to the skin just below Luke’s ear. Luke melts back into him, pliant. Ashton grins at Michael over Luke’s shoulder.

“We’ve brought Newt with us every day,” he says. “He missed you.”

Michael smiles. He ducks his head to look at Newt-the-hedgehog, who is already halfway asleep from the way Calum is petting him. Michael likes watching Calum and Newt. He likes the way Calum is so gentle with Newt, the way Calum treats Newt like Michael himself does. Newt seems to like this about Calum, too.  He headbutts Calum’s palm, eager to be petted more. Calum chuckles lightly but obliges. Calum looks up at Michael, smiling.

“We all missed you.”

Ashton and Luke echo Calum’s statement, but Michael hardly registers them. He’s overwhelmed by just how close Calum’s lips are to his own. By how Calum’s breath is hot against his mouth. By how much he wants to kiss Calum. And then…

Calum kisses him.  


	20. Chapter 20

Calum’s lips are nice and soft against Michael’s own. He kisses Michael like he means to—like he’s spent so long dreaming about it that he’s planned exactly how he’s going to do it. Or maybe that is just Michael’s overactive imagination, because this kiss, it’s everything Michael has ever dreamed it would be.

But it’s over too soon.

Calum draws back ever-so-slightly, just enough so that he can look Michael in the eyes, and for a split second, Michael is afraid of Calum. He fears the thoughts running through Calum’s mind, how they might be poisoned with regret. How Calum might not have meant to kiss him full-on the lips. How Calum might have just handed Michael the end world only to snatch it back because he didn’t mean to hand it over in the first place.

The silence between them is deafening. Michael has just enough time to consider reaching for the voids. To consider running away to the farthest point in the castle and never, ever face Calum or Luke or Ashton again. But Calum speaks before Michael can even start to draw the magic of Hogwarts to him.

“D’you always kiss that good?” asks Calum, low and gravelly. His breath puffs against Michael’s mouth, a warm chase of air across Michael’s tingling lips. “ _Merlin_ , I wouldn’t have wasted so much time waiting if I’d known that.”

Michael blinks, stunned. He pulls back from Calum, lets space in between them again. He opens his mouth to speak, but his voice doesn’t immediately come to him, mortifyingly enough. A bright blush stains his cheeks. He glances at Ashton and Luke, who sit in silence grinning and watching this scene unfold in front of them them, before he returns his gaze to Calum. He thinks about escaping through the voids once more, but he doesn’t move.

“What d’you—what d’you mean?” he asks.

Calum smiles. It nearly splits his face in two, and his eyes dance with glee. He pats Newt one last time before taking Michael’s closest hand into both of his own. He holds it like Michael is something precious. Like Michael is something to be cherished. Like he never wants to let go.

“D’you remember that time when we were kids? When you came over to my house with a bloody cheek and a busted lip, and I patched you up _again_? We were ten, and you had told your parents that you didn’t care what they said—that you weren’t going to be a Slytherin—that the Slytherin house was stupid. They beat you, and you ran away to my house and I fixed you up?” asks Calum, eyes wide and words slurred together in his rush to speak.

He doesn’t really need to go into such detail, though. Michael remembers that like it was yesterday, like he remembers most of his fond childhood memories that always involved Calum. Michael’s parents had been going on and on all morning about the glory of the Slytherin house and about how Michael was expected to bring honor to the Clifford name and get sorted into it come that September. Michael couldn’t take it anymore, and he’d told his parents he wasn’t going to be in Slytherin. That he didn’t care where he was as long as it _wasn’t_ Slytherin. His mother had backhanded him before he even finished speaking. The punishment for his uncultured mouth went on and on forever until Michael had escaped at the first chance he got, and he’d run all the way to Calum’s house, because Calum wouldn’t hurt him. Calum wouldn’t shove the glory of Slytherin down his throat. Calum would only love him, nothing more.

That’s what Calum had done. Calum had opened the door to find Michael a bloody mess on the other side, and he took Michael back to the wash room where his mummy kept all of the healing potions, and he fixed Michael right up. He had even promised, at Michael’s meek insistence, that he would be friends with Michael even if what Michael’s parents said was true—even if Michael became a Slytherin.

Now, five years later, Michael can still remember how the potion smelled like lavender and how gentle Calum had spread it across his bleeding cheek. Maybe Calum hadn’t kept his promise, but that’s Michael’s fault, too, and Calum is holding true to it now.

“I wanted to go over and blast your parents to nothing. I was so mad,” spits Calum. Anger dances like fire in his eyes. “You were my best friend. You were the most important thing to me, and they were mean to you, and I wanted to go over and curse them into oblivion. I knew back then you were something special, Mikey. It only became more… real as time went by. Everybody was mean to you, and you told me to leave you alone—that people were mean to you _because of me_ —and I backed off, so that you wouldn’t get hurt. I shouldn’t have. I wished everyday that I didn’t, because you got hurt anyway, didn’t you?”

Calum pauses. He leans forward again and rests his forehead against Michael’s, desperate for the contact. He takes in a shuddering breath. Michael stays stock-still. His heart pounds in his ear. He wants to kiss Calum right now, but Calum isn’t done speaking.

“I fell in love with you when I was ten years old. So much has happened since then. We drifted apart, and I let you get hurt—hell, I _hurt_ you myself like the bastard I am—but… Michael, I’ve wanted to kiss you since second year when you appeared out of literal nowhere on the quidditch pitch right as I was picked to be on the team, and everybody was chanting my name, but you were the only thing I knew—even when you disappeared right back into nothingness and I convinced myself that maybe you weren’t there at all. It didn’t matter. I wanted to kiss you anyway. I _still_ want to kiss you. Every day. Always.”

Michael closes his eyes. This is all almost too much, Calum’s confession. He draws in a shaky breath. He counts to ten as he releases it. When he opens his eyes, Calum is still there. Still staring at him with his eyes so full of love and adoration that Michael nearly forgets how to breathe again. This isn’t a dream. It isn’t a fantasy. This is Calum right before him saying that he’s in love with him and saying that he wants to kiss him. That he’s always wanted to kiss him.

“I’ve known I was in love with you since the day Luke pantsed you in front of the whole school,” Michael says, because Calum should know this. It’s important. “I think I’ve wanted to kiss you since then, too.”

“Then kiss me now,” says Calum.

He doesn’t wait for Michael to do exactly that before he leans the rest of the way forward and presses his lips against Michael’s. It’s soft at first, almost hesitant, but Michael kisses back fiercely, and Calum rises to the challenge. It’s scary, kissing Calum, because it’s everything Michael wants, but Calum kisses him back like he means it, and Michael lets himself enjoy this for what it is.

Everything else fades from his awareness. It’s only him and Calum. Their lips pressed together. Calum’s hands wrapped around Michael’s own like he can’t bear to let him go.

Ashton and Luke slip out of the room a few minutes later, after Michael and Calum have finished kissing for the time being. Luke promises to pick up Calum’s assignments as he and Ashton walk hand-in-hand out of the hospital wing. Classes will begin in a matter of minutes. Luke and Ashton probably have just long enough to dash up to the Transfiguration classroom.

Calum settles in against Michael for the rest of the day. They kiss some, but they spend most of it reminiscing about their childhood, about the hours they spent hiding from Michael’s mean old caretaker and about the piping hot, delicious biscuits they’d steal whenever Calum’s mummy always left them unattended on the table. Calum holds Michael’s hand the entire time, and he doesn’t let go, not even later when Ashton and Luke come back to visit Michael that afternoon until curfew.

That night, right before Calum leaves to go back to his dorm with Luke and Ashton, he kisses Michael one last time on the lips, a silent promise of more to come.

Michael stays in the hospital wing for two more days. The others keep Newt with them, bringing him to visit when they sit with him, but taking him back to the dorm every night where Luke promises he’s well taken care of. Michael believes him. He knows Luke and Calum and Ashton care about Newt as much as Michael himself does, but Michael still misses him when he’s gone.

The worst of the aftereffects of the potion seems to have passed when he wakes up the third morning in a row. He is no longer feverish, at least, and Madam Pomfrey takes that as a good sign. He is still magically weak, but the nursemaid assures him that is only to be expected from the rough week he has had, so she gives him a pepper-up potion and sends him on his way seventy-two hours after he wakes for the first time.

It is Ashton’s turn to sit with him, as he doesn’t have any lectures after lunch. He skips his morning classes, too. Calum had offered, unwilling to leave Michael’s side, but Ashton had pointed out that Calum and Luke both had an exam in Charms that they couldn’t miss. Begrudgingly, Calum had agreed Professor Flitwick probably wouldn’t give him a makeup now that Michael was awake and mostly recovered.

So Ashton greets Michael after breakfast, all smiles and excitement. Michael is already dressed in his school robes, his beanie on top of his head. He doesn’t need it to hide the shame of his hair anymore—he quite likes the blue that the potion had turned it—but the beanie had been a gift from Calum a long time ago, and he likes the comfort it gives him to wear it. He even removes the charm he’d placed on it and lets it shine in the glory of the colors of the four Hogwarts houses. Blue bleeding into Red. Yellow swirled around Green. He wears it with pride.

Louis’s jumper, on the other hand, is folded and shrank tiny enough to fit into his pocket. He couldn’t bring himself to put it on, no matter how drafty his robes feel without it. Every time he’d looked at it, he kept picturing the blast of bright light heading straight for Luke’s chest. It makes Michael sick at his stomach, reliving the terrifying ordeal, so he’d carefully shrank it down and put it in the pocket of his robes that Newt usually calls home.

“Madam Pomfrey finally released you?” asks Ashton, strolling up to a stop in front of the foot of Michael’s bed.

Michael grunts in response. He’s still seated on the bed, trying to slip his feet into his shoes but having very little luck. He can’t seem to coordinate his fingers enough to do up his laces. He may be more than just magically weak, not that he would let on as so to anybody. He might go insane if he has to spend one more hour in the hospital wing.

“I’m to be supervised for the next few days,” he says dutifully.

He nods at the bedside table that holds a vial of magically refilling potion and a slip of parchment. While the potion tastes horrid and Michael would never even wish it on the reincarnation of Lord Voldemort, it is the parchment that is the bane of his existence. It lists precise instructions of what Michael can and cannot do. The cannots far outnumber the cans. Walking up or down stairs without some type of aid—either a cane or a friendly helping hand—is number three on the endless list of cannots. He hasn’t read much past it, but he’s certain it can only include other things designed to make his life more difficult.

“That was a guarantee anyway,” says Ashton. He walks over to the list and pick it up, perusing its contents. Absent mindedly, he draws out his wand. He flicks it toward Michael’s shoes, magicking up the laces into neat little bows in the blink of an eye. “I’m supposed to help you get your things from the Slytherin dungeon to take to Calum’s dorm. We’ve been cycling between there and Ravenclaw, but we figured Hufflepuff would be a shorter walk from your dorm and the kitchens. The three of us, we’re going to be like a permanent sticking charm to you—or maybe more like muggle glue. You can probably manage the toilet unaccompanied.”

“I’m glad to know you have that much faith in me,” says Michael, grinning his thanks for his shoelaces to Ashton. Truthfully, the idea of not having to be alone for the next few days is comforting. He’s grown quite used to somebody always being with him when he is awake, whether that is Calum or Ashton or Luke or all of them. The idea of losing that all at once is terrifying. He doesn’t want to be alone.

Ashton finishes reading the parchment. He folds it carefully and stows it, as well as the potion, safely in his pocket. He helps Michael to his feet. Michael sways unsteadily, unused to being vertical after so long of laying down, but Ashton wraps one arm around Michael’s shoulders and holds him firm. He isn’t going to let Michael fall.

Together, they leave the hospital wing. Michael leans heavily on Ashton, and he thinks about the time this situation had been reversed, and he’d had to help Ashton get to the hospital wing after a bad run-in with the firecrabs. That feels like a lifetime ago now.

“If you really need us to, I can hold your hand while you piss—or maybe Calum should. He’d probably be better at it than me,” teases Ashton when they’re in the corridor and Michael hasn’t yet knocked them both flat on their faces.

Michael blushes to the tips of his ears. He thinks about how Calum had kissed him so gently last night before he’d left and how he hadn’t wanted to let go of Michael’s hand even when Ashton and Luke had dragged him out ten minutes after curfew. Michael hadn’t wanted Calum to leave, either, not so soon after he’d finally gotten everything he ever wanted: friends and Calum’s love.  

Ashton barks out a laugh, carefree and joyous. It snaps Michael out of his thoughts. It’s so contagious that Michael finds himself joining in. He feels warm all over for this joke between friends. He’s missed Ashton so, so much.

 “Because you and Luke haven’t had enough practicing?” quips Michael once his own laughter has subsided enough for him to speak. He feels Ashton tense against him, and his stomach hits the floor. He sobers completely.  He feels guilty.“I’m sorry. I thought you and Luke were—I mean with the way you were with him last night after Louis…”

Ashton is quiet for a moment as they descend beneath the castle. Michael lets his words hang in the air, his statement incomplete. He doesn’t really know what else to say. He does know that he is saying all the wrong things, so he should probably just shut up before he offends Ashton. He doesn’t want to be mean to Ashton, especially not since Ashton has been kind enough to be his friend.

“D’you remember the day that the thing with the banner happened?”

Michael winces. Of course he does. He doesn’t think he’ll ever forget that day for as long as he lives.

“Yeah—stupid question,” mutters Ashton.

He’s quiet for a beat as he gathers his thoughts. Michael is patient with him, but he wants so badly to know exactly where Ashton is going with this reminder. They slowly amble down a set of stairs, taking them one at a time and no quicker, toward the Slytherin dungeon then along a corridor. They turn a corner then Ashton speaks.

“Luke got to the Great Hall first. It was—It was bad. It was so bad, Mikey, that I don’t even know where to start.”

They’re in sight of the Slytherin dungeon now, but Ashton slows to a stop. Michael, attached to him, halts as well. They’re hidden from the rest of the world in a small alcove. Ashton stares at their feet. Michael has never, ever seen him look so scared. Not when he dove to save Calum from crashing down to the ground during the quidditch match. Not when Michael himself threw back a potion he shouldn’t have drank.

Michael feels like maybe right now it isn’t he who needs Ashton’s support to remain upright but rather Ashton who needs his.

“They used the Imperius Curse,” says Ashton. His voice is empty, but he quivers over the last two words. His face is ashen. He squints his eyes shut. His fingers dig into Michael’s shoulder, painful but grounding. “I don’t—I don’t know _who_ , because neither Calum nor Luke will tell me. They’re afraid I’ll go after them or something, and I would. I could murder them with my bare hands! Those bastards, they used the Imperius Curse on Luke to make him—to make him—”

Ashton can’t bring himself to say the words, but Michael doesn’t think he needs to. He hears the truth in the raw _fear_ in Ashton’s voice. He feels it in the way Ashton _trembles_ against him. He knows it in the pit of his stomach, and it makes him want to vomit. The idea that anybody could be so cruel to someone—to _Luke_ —makes Michael wish he knew the names of those bastards, so that he could  make them regret ever thinking about being mean to Luke.

“Calum stopped them, blasted them away from Luke with enough power that should have gotten him expelled. McGonagall’s always had a soft spot for Calum—all the professors do, really—and he was only _protecting_ Luke anyway. He didn’t get in trouble, and he got Luke away, and nobody would let me leave Gryffindor tower. Liam sent Harry and Niall up there to me. They wouldn’t let me leave, and they didn’t tell me _why_ for the longest time.”

Ashton draws in a shaky breath, like it’s taking everything out of him to stay strong. To finish this story. To tell Michael the missing link of that awful day that he deserves to know. Michael turns around to face Ashton, moving carefully so that Ashton’s arm never leaves his shoulder, and he draws Ashton into a proper hug. Ashton falls into him, gently, because Michael is too weak for anything more.

“I’m so fucking sorry,” says Michael. The words feel inadequate on his lips, but he means them with every fiber of his being. He’s never meant anything more, probably. It’s all of his fault. If he hadn’t had that stupid idea for the banner in the first place—or if would have let Calum see the surprise before he unveiled it to the world—then Finn and Archer wouldn’t have gotten the upper hand. Ashton and Luke wouldn’t have been shoved head-first out of the closet, and nobody—not Michael, not Ashton, and certainly not Luke—would have gotten hurt.

Ashton goes rigid in Michael’s arms. He shoves against Michael’s chest with just enough force to push Michael back a little so that they can see each other properly. Fire dancing in Ashton’s eyes. Gone is his fear. Anger rushes to fill the empty void it left behind.

“Shut up, Michael. Don’t you ever, _ever_ apologize for what those bastards did. It wasn’t your fault, dammit, and if you even _think_ that it might be, I’ll—I’ll—I dunno what I’ll do, but I swear to you it won’t be pleasant.”

The threat itself, while genuine, is so ridiculous, so empty, that Michael can’t help but to crack a grin. Ashton glares at him, unhappy that he couldn’t come up with anything more terrifying than the threat of an generalized unpleasantry. The heat of his glare is lost when he lets out a small chuckle. The fight goes out of him almost simultaneously. He pulls Michael back to him, his arms tight in a hug, and he buries his face into the crook of Michael’s neck.

“Harry and Niall wouldn’t let me leave Gryffindor tower,” repeats Ashton, returning to the original subject. “All they told me was that something had happened and that Luke and Calum would be up there shortly and that I wasn’t, under any circumstances, allowed to leave the dorm. I was… I was so _scared_.”

Michael drops his own head to Ashton’s shoulder, and he closes his eyes. He thinks of that awful day—of walking into the hostile crowd and finding Luke surrounded by the Gryffindor quidditch team like they were his own personal bodyguards. He’d never considered that was _exactly_ what they were. That Liam, probably, had rallied his teammates around Luke to protect him from everybody else who might want to hurt Luke for being in love with Ashton.

It hadn’t seemed odd at the time that Calum hadn’t been with Luke. It hadn’t even seemed odd when Calum had appeared out of nowhere and instantly corralled Luke to safety behind the Gryffindor line in an effort to get him straight to Ashton. Back then, Michael hadn’t seen much past his own heart breaking.

He hadn’t seen beyond the cruelty of his own world ending to hear the tremor in Calum’s empty voice when Calum had said, _I really wanted to believe the best of you, but you had to go and prove everybody right, didn’t you?_ Looking back on it now, everything was right there plain for Michael to see. Calum had been scared then, too. Scared for Luke. Scared for Ashton. Scared of Michael—or, rather, of what he thought Michael had done.

It’s no easier to remember, knowing Ashton’s side of the story now.

“Luke wouldn’t talk to anybody. He wouldn’t—he didn’t leave his dorm for like a week. When he finally did, it was only to go to classes, because Merlin forbid Mrs. Hemmings catch wind of Luke skipping classes,” says Ashton. A tiny inkling of amusement starts to stain his voice, but it’s gone when he speaks again. “It was Calum in the end who sat us down and told us we were being ridiculous. I dunno why that’s surprising, really. Luke and I became friends because of Calum way back when. It only made sense, naturally, that he made sure we were on good terms again. He all but literally smacked some sense into the pair of us.”

Michael snorts, grinning into Ashton’s shoulder. That does sound like something Calum would do.

“He basically told Luke that I was the last person Luke should ever be afraid of,” says Ashton, bumping his head against Michael’s as a reprimand for his interruption. It’s a soft tap, though, and when he’s done, he doesn’t move back away, so their heads rest pressed against each other. It’s camaraderie in its simplest form. They both need it. “Cal told me to make sure I didn’t fuck it up—which was needless, of course. I’d rather die than hurt Luke.”

Ashton pauses for a moment, catching his breath and ordering his thoughts. He draws away from Michael, but Michael isn’t ready to let go of the hug. Ashton laughs as he works to gently untangle himself from Michael. When he is finally successful, he doesn’t go far, only wraps his arm back around Michael’s shoulder. They stand side-by-side staring at the entrance Slytherin dungeon once more.

“We worked things out,” says Ashton. He looks over at Michael and meets his eyes. “We talked about how scary that day was and about how scary the idea of living without the other person is, and we decided that avoiding each other was the stupidest idea ever. We shouldn’t let the bastards win. So we didn’t. Luke and I—we’re what we always have been: just _us_. But we’re more, too, I guess? I dunno. I’m probably not making any sense. We’re dating, I suppose. I mean, we _are_ , but the thing is that I’ve been in love with Luke since I can remember, and it just seems a little anticlimatic to just say we’re _just_ dating, you know?”

Michael thinks about Calum, and he thinks about that day in third year when Luke had pulled Calum’s trousers down in front of the entire school and the Minister for Magic himself, and he thinks about how he’s always know that Calum was his favorite person in the history of forever. That he had realized, as a third year disliked by everybody, what such favoritism could mean. That he was in love with Calum and probably had been in some form or fashion since the day they met as snotty-nosed kids with uncontrollable magic.

“Yeah, I think I understand,” he says. He lets his head fall sideways to rest against Ashton’s shoulder once again, and they stand there in front of the Slytherin dungeon as the best of friends, happy and safe together.


	21. Chapter 21

Luke claims the middle that night and refuses to let anybody take it from him—not that anybody tries to at all. Ashton is always easy for Luke, so catering to his requests is second nature. Michael, for one, can’t get the image of Louis’s spell on a straight-path trajectory for Luke’s heart out of his mind, and it’s been days since that particular event. He thinks he would feel a lot better with Luke safely encased in the middle of their sleeping arrangements. He doesn’t argue with Luke, either. As for Calum, well, he is pretty satisfied with Michael out of the hospital wing and in his bed instead that he doesn’t really care where the other two are, as long they are, of course, there.

The whole set up is a little impractical, Michael thinks as he and Calum work to stretch the bed wide enough to accommodate four teenage boys. In the end, one of Calum’s dorm mates, who has plans to spend the night elsewhere, offers to scoot his bed adjacent to Calum’s so that they don’t have to push the limits of wizardry physics and risk totally destroying Calum’s bed. It is a gracious offer that only really costs Calum the effort of moving the other bed next to his. In the end, the whole thing is a little more doable.

Ashton and Luke end up on the other bed, not that it really matters as Michael has placed a temporary magical bond between the mattresses to ensure that neither he nor Luke falls through the gap. Or, worse, that Newt doesn’t, which is a likely fear whenever Michael sets Newt down on his pillow, and Newt make a beeline for the tiny space between Luke and Ashton’s heads. Luke grins sleepily at Newt and pets down his back like Newt likes so much before he scoots down in the bed a little bit to lay his head on Ashton’s shoulder and give Newt as much room on the pillow as the hedgehog could want. Newt expresses his gratitude by nosing into Luke’s hair when he goes to curl up in a tiny ball above him. Michael grins at the pair of them. He likes how much Luke has taken to Newt and how much Newt, in turn, likes Luke.

Michael hadn’t brought much from the Slytherin dungeon when he and Ashton had stopped in earlier. He had only grabbed a couple of robes and a few other necessities, such as his book bag, figuring that he was at liberty to return whenever he wanted if he needed something bad enough. He didn’t think far enough ahead to contemplate what he was going to sleep in while staying in the Hufflepuff basement, though. It proves to be a conundrum for all of two minutes until Calum comes to his rescue and offers him a well-worn muggle t-shirt. It looks a whole lot like the one Ashton had let Michael borrow the time he stayed in Gryffindor tower, and he suspects it must be a gift from Ashton.

He changes into it without fuss, happy that Calum’s t-shirt feels just as much like _friendship_ as his jumper does. It fits in the same way the jumper does, big around Michael’s shoulders but comfortable nonetheless. The jumper itself was one of the things Michael made sure he retrieved from his trunk earlier. It had been buried underneath a month’s worth of detritus, but a simple cleaning spell had restored it to a wearable condition. He is looking forward to drowning in it tomorrow morning when he sneaks away to the library to read while Calum has quidditch practice and Ashton and Luke head to Hogsmeade to have a date.

Calum waits for Michael to get into bed before he climbs in after him. Michael lays flush against Luke until Calum is settled and no longer in danger of toppling off the edge. Luke wraps one arm around Michael, already drifting off to sleep with his head pillowed against Ashton’s shoulder. When Calum finally gets situated, he draws Michael away from Luke to him instead. It isn’t much of a change, except that Luke’s arm slips from Michael’s waist until only his hand is curled around the curve of Michael’s hip, an everlasting reminder that Michael is there safe with them and not all alone in the hospital wing.

Michael likes how tactile Luke is. Calum and Ashton, too, prefer some type of physical contact but not like Luke. It probably has something to do with Luke being the baby of his family, with Luke always having someone to hold his hand. Or maybe it has to do with how devastated by loss Luke was at a young age, losing his parents to the war effort because Michael’s own were eager for money and prestige and the furtherance of the Dark Lord’s values.

Whatever it is, it makes Luke particularly clingy, and Michael likes that about him. He likes that Luke always needs to make sure someone—namely Michael as of late—is there. Because, well, Michael likes the reminder, too.

Everyone exchanges their goodnights. Michael is so, so tired. He thinks that maybe he says them back. He isn’t entirely sure. He nuzzles underneath Calum’s chin, safe and protected and loved, and drifts off to sleep almost as quickly as Luke does at his back. The last thing he remembers is Calum pressing a gentle kiss to the top of his head.

“Love you, Mikey,” murmurs Calum. His voice sounds like it’s a million kilometers away. “Sweet dreams.”

Michael thinks he might have said it back—he hopes he did, at least, because he loves Calum, too, and Calum deserves to be reminded of that fact—but he isn’t quite certain that he did. He sleeps so, so well between Luke and Calum that he doesn’t ever want it to end. Calum keeps his arms wrapped around him the entire night. Their legs remain tangled together beneath the covers.

Michael doesn’t think he’s slept so well since the time he slept up in Gryffindor tower with Luke and Ashton. It is nice. It is even nicer when, halfway through the night, Ashton shoves Luke closer to Michael so that Ashton isn’t in danger of falling off the bed every time he so much as breathes. Ashton curls around Luke’s frame, and he rests his hand on top of Luke’s on Michael’s hip. They’re all four connected. Safe and together. Sleepily, Michael appreciates the reminder.

The next thing Michael knows is waking up hours later at the crack of dawn to Calum trying to ease his way out of the bed. Calum should have bothered with the effort. His absence is immediately noticeable, as Michael misses not only Calum’s proximity but also his body heat. There is a draft underneath the covers now. The bed feels too big in all of the wrong ways. Michael, still half asleep, grunts his displeasure that Calum is leaving. Calum freezes almost immediately.

“Sorry, I didn’t mean to wake you up,” whispers Calum in the dead of the morning. “But I’ve got to get to practice. Niall will have my arse if I’m not on my broomstick in, like, ten minutes.”

The sun is barely up, though down here in the Hufflepuff basement, the sun itself is irrelevant, but Michael knows by the soft snores filling the room that it can’t be much past dawn. The dorm is softly illuminated by the spherical overhead light that is meant to represent the sun and stream the appropriate amount of faux morning sunlight into the darkness. It glows dimly at such an early hour. The light is blocked off by the curtains that drawn all around the two beds, except for the side that Calum is trying to crawl out of.

“But you should stay here forever,” mumbles Michael, shoving his face into the pillow beneath his head to block out the light. It isn’t much to see by, but it’s entirely more than Michael wants to look at. “Forget Niall.”

Calum laughs, quiet in the sleeping room. He doesn’t return to the bed like Michael would like. Instead, he starts to rummage through his trunk. Michael burrows farther into the covers, pressing back against Luke who is still sleeping behind him. He turns his head to watch Calum in the dim light of the dorm. Calum looks sleep-rumpled in the best of ways, his hair sticking straight up in the back and a pillow crease on his right cheek.

“There is no forgetting Niall when it comes to quidditch,” Calum says, softly, once he has found an acceptable set of practice robes in his trunk. He starts to slip out of his sleeping clothes and into the robes instead. He grins over at Michael. “He’d likely march all the way here and drag me out in my pants—and I have desire to freeze my bullocks off on the pitch.”

“I know a great warming spell,” whispers Michael. He isn’t quite awake enough for a proper delivery, but it garners a laugh out of Calum nonetheless.

“Tempting.”

But Calum doesn’t mean it. Dressed now in his robes, he falls to his hands and knees to the floor next to the bed to search for his shoes. He finds one almost immediately but has to dig around entirely too long for the other one. Michael wonders if he should point out the handiness of a simple summoning spell. Calum comes up victorious with the second shoe in hand before the words can form on the tip of Michael’s tongue.

Calum tugs on his shoes. He doesn’t bother with the laces, except to do a quick tying spell that take nearly as long to perform as it would have taken him to do them up himself. There is no part of Calum right now that even suggests he is a morning person. Michael smiles to himself, finding Calum all too endearing.

“I’m going to be so late,” mourns Calum when he catches sight on the time on the magical alarm clock set up on his nightstand. “Niall is probably looking for a replacement chaser right now.”

“Just use the voids. You remember how. You’ll get there in no time,” Michael suggests. He knows it’s true. The magic surrounding the quidditch pitch is some of the weakest Hogwarts has to offer. It’s always easy to open voids there.

Calum stops and smiles sadly at Michael. “They don’t work for me anymore, remember?”

 _Oh, that_. Michael winces.

“I can—I can take you through one?”

“It’s barely dawn, Mikey. I can’t ask you to do that,” says Calum, though he really looks like he wishes he could. Michael wonders if it is because Calum wants to travel the voids again or if it’s because Calum really doesn’t want to be late for practice or if, maybe, it’s because he’ll get to spend just a tiny bit longer with Michael himself in doing so. Michael kind of hopes it’s the last one. “I didn’t even mean to wake you up in the first place.”

“Well, I’m up now,” says Michael.

He sits up to prove his point. Luke’s hand tightens on his hip out of sleepy discontent. Michael pats him gently to coerce him to let go. Luke does after a few seconds, and he curls his hand back into his chest. Ashton follows him the entire way.

“Michael—”

But Michael isn’t having it, not that Calum is putting up too much of a fight.

“D’you want to invoke the wrath of Niall? Because you seemed reluctant to a few minutes ago when I tried to convince you to skip practice.”

Calum smiles despite himself, and he doesn’t stop Michael as Michael steps into his trousers or as Michael pulls on Calum’s old jumper. He doesn’t even try to dissuade Michael from slipping his feet into shoes, though he does make a face when Michael doesn’t bother with socks. Typically, Michael hates wearing shoes without socks. He doesn’t like the way they rub his ankles or the sticky way the shoes feel bare around his toes. He can deal with it, though, for the few minutes it will take to travel the voids.

“Thank you,” says Calum, graciously whenever Michael stands up before him. He leans forward to give Michael a quick peck on the lips, barely there but enough. They don’t have time for anything else.

Michael grins at Calum. He holds out his hand, and Calum takes it, no hesitation, trusting Michael for everything that Michael is. He squeezes Michael’s hand, and Michael squeezes back. A void tears open before them, instant and ready for them. Michael glances over his shoulder at Newt who is still curled up and sleeping on the pillow next to Luke. Newt is in good hands. He turns back to Calum.

“You ready?”

“For you?” asks Calum, smiling. “Always.”

Michael shivers at Calum’s response, feeling so overwhelmed by love that he accidentally sends a spurt of magic right into the void before them. It brightens, almost blindingly so, and Michael tugs Calum into it before the brightness wakes up the entire dorm. The magic of Hogwarts rushes around them, safely encasing them as it swallows them up. Calum’s hand never leaves Michael.

They spill out on the other side, which happens to be on the south edge of the quidditch pitch. Across the way is the Hufflepuff locker room. Niall isn’t outside of it yelling for everybody to get on their brooms. That is a good sign for Calum. It means he isn’t late.

The morning air icy around them. Michael whips out his wand almost immediately and performs a warming spell on both him and Calum, making sure to direct the majority of the magic at Calum who is going to be out here for the next couple of hours. When Michael disappears back into the voids, the spell should linger with Calum.

“See? No time,” says Michael.

Calum chuckles. He doesn’t have a means to dispute Michael’s statement, not that he bothers looking for one. He turns so that he is standing face-to-face with Michael. The early rays of the sunlight dance soft across his brown skin. Michael thinks he looks even more devastatingly handsome in the new light. He thinks about telling him as much. It’s things like this that Michael wants to say to Calum forever.

“You’ve very handsome this morning,” says Michael. He bites his lip almost immediately, because he doesn’t know if such a thing is appropriate to declare out of nowhere barely days after Calum had admitted he’d been in love with Michael for years. He hopes it’s something that he can say, because it brings a nice smile to Calum’s lips. It makes Calum’s eyes sparkle, too.

“You’re very handsome all of the time,” counters Calum. He leans forward to press their foreheads together, and Michael spies the hint of a blush in Calum’s cheeks. “And you’re making it really difficult for me to leave you for quidditch practice right now.”

“Hey, I suggested you should skip out before we even left the dorm,” teases Michael, but his heart skips a beat in his chest at Calum’s statement.

“I only want to kiss you and do nothing else for the rest of the day—for forever, actually,” whispers Calum like it’s a secret that Michael should know. Like it’s a secret the Michael shouldn’t forget. He leans forward to kiss Michael. It’s no more of a proper kiss than the earlier one was, but Michael dives into it nonetheless before Calum pulls away. Their foreheads are still pressed together.  “Listen—I’ve been meaning to ask you—”

“Hood! What the hell are you doing?” bellows Niall, unnecessarily loud for his proximity.

Calum curses, pulling back from Michael and turning around. Niall is right there. He has one hand on his broom and the other on his hip. He looks down to business in the way that he only ever is when it comes to quidditch.

“Kiss your boyfriend goodbye, and get your arse on a broom, or I swear I’ll put you on it myself, and you don’t want that, Hood. We’re facing off against Slytherin next week, and—no offense, Clifford—we’ve got to kick their arses. I won’t have Louis and Zayn gloating like last year.”

Calum laughs loudly at Niall’s dramatics, all too used to them after four years of playing on the same team. Niall only glares in response, but Calum turns his back on Niall to face Michael once more. He shrugs sheepishly.

“I should probably go get on my broom before he makes good on his promise,” he says. He doesn’t move. He chews on his bottom lip, nervous all of a sudden. “We haven’t really talked about, you know, _us_.”

“Is this the best time to talk about it?” asks Michael. His hearts beats like a drum in his chest, loud and powerful. Calum has to hear it. Michael can hardly hear anything except for it. He has sort of been waiting for this conversation for a few days now, but he has never been brave enough to approach it. Calum hasn’t either until now.

Michael glances toward Niall, but Niall is gone from his earlier spot. He has already climbed onto his broom and started circling the stadium, warming up. However eager Niall is to start practice and however badass he likes to come across as, Niall is relatively harmless when it comes down to it. He flies close enough overhead on one of his loops to meet Michael’s eyes, and he winks. Michael thinks Niall might know exactly how bad Calum’s timing is. Perhaps he has overhead them, shamelessly listening in.

“Probably not,” admits Calum, but he doesn’t sound repentant about it. Rather, he sounds excited, like a kid whose mother has finally agreed to let him pick out one chocolate bar from the entire store’s selection. “But, like, I watched all of the hell Luke and Ashton went through—the hell they’re still _going_ through—and I don’t really want to deal with that, you know? It’s scary, and I want us to be on the same page. I like you, Michael. I really, really like you. I mean, I love you.”

“I love you, too,” says Michael, on instinct, because it is the truth.

He thinks, vaguely that this is the most bizarre timing for this particular conversation, but he doesn’t say as much. Calum is right: they do need this talk. They should have had it days ago when Calum and Michael first confessed their love for each other in the hospital wing, but, compared to everything else that was going on, there hadn’t been room for such a discussion. There isn’t really room now, either. Calum should have been on his broom for quidditch practice five minutes ago. Niall and half of the team circling overhead suggest as much.

“We’re dating, right? Like, Niall was right earlier to call you my boyfriend, wasn’t it?” asks Calum, and he sounds almost… insecure. Michael hates it on him.

“Yes—I mean, I’d like that.”

“Me, too,” says Calum. He draws in a deep breath, and Michael knows before Calum even speaks again that Calum has had this speech ready for a while. That he’s rehearsed it until it was perfect. That he’s _thought_ of calling Michael his boyfriend, and it’s not a spur-of-the-moment thing. It warms Michael’s heart like a heating charm. “I want to tell people that, you know, you’re mine, and I’m yours, but I don’t want to if you don’t. If you’re not comfortable with it, because, I know it’s scary, and with—”

“Calum,” interrupts Michael, gently, because he knows that once Calum gets started, he won’t stop. “I want that, too. I mean, I wasn’t sure you would, since I’m—well, since nobody likes me…”

“I don’t give a damn what other people think,” says Calum, vehement. He reaches for Michael’s hands again and holds them tight, like he’s afraid Michael might slip away right before his very eyes. “They’re bastards. All of them. They can go fuck themselves for all I care. I want everybody to know that I’m yours, that you’re mine, because I’m proud of that. I’ve never been prouder of anything in my entire life.”

Michael blushes. He likes Calum’s words, but he doesn’t know that he can believe them. Nobody wanted to be his friend for so, so long. He can’t quite wrap his mind around the idea that not only is Calum his friend and is Calum in love with him and is Calum dating him, but Calum is also _proud_ of him. No one has ever been proud of Michael, not even his parents.

“You’ve won the quidditch cup twice,” says Michael, because surely there is something else that Calum is prouder of. Surely, there is. Michael isn’t that special.

“Plenty of people have won the quidditch up, multiple times, even,” says Calum. He tugs at Michael’s hands until Michael finally meets his eyes. “But there is only one you, Mikey, and I’m the only person lucky enough to have you. Quidditch pales in comparison.”

Michael’s heart skips a beat again. Calum’s words settle nice and warm in the pit of Michael’s stomach. Michael really, really wants to kiss Calum, because he doesn’t know how else to convey to how much Calum means to him in this moment. How much Calum means to him always.

So he kisses Calum, and it’s their first proper kiss of the morning. Calum’s lips are chapped against Michael’s. They’re rough, but Calum kisses him back so fiercely that Michael hardly cares. Calum lets go of Michael’s hands to cup his face, and Michael threads his fingers through Calum’s hair. They deepen the kiss until Michael’s lungs start to burn. Still, they don’t stop, not even when Niall, hundreds of meters above them in the air, wolf-whistles at them. Not even when Michael misjudges the angle of their kiss and accidently bites down a little too hard on Calum’s bottom lip.

When they finally do part, panting against each other with their foreheads pressed together once more, Calum grins at Michael and asks, “Go on a date with me to Hogsmeade later, please?”

Michael doesn’t hesitate.

“Yes.”

And he kisses Calum again.


	22. Chapter 22

Michael takes a void back to Calum’s dorm. It’s still barely past dawn. Down here in the Hufflepuff basement, the earliness of the morning is even more obvious. The light is low, almost inexistent until Michael appears out of nowhere and it automatically brightens up for him to see by. He slips back out of his outerwear as quickly as possible, not wanting to disturb the other sleeping students.

When he draws back the curtain to Calum’s bed, he finds that Luke and Ashton have moved over in the others’ absence and are now laying where Michael and Calum had slept. They’re curled together, Ashton’s body bracketing Luke’s like, even in sleep, he has the unquenchable desire to keep Luke safe and secure. It’s a heart-warming sight that only gets more so when Michael spies Newt-the-hedgehog sleeping in a ball on Calum’s pillow in the mess of Ashton’s curls. Michael suspects that it might take some work later on to get the hedgehog untangled.

Michael briefly considers crawling over both Luke and Ashton to sleep in the extra bed, but there is a little bit of space on the near side of Luke, between him and the edge. It is much easier to get to. Michael whips out his wand and taps the mattress. It gently enlarges underneath Michael’s spell until it’s big enough for Michael to lay down, too.

He pulls the curtains shut when he is settled next to Luke. The room darkens again, as the light is no longer needed. Luke, sleepily, recognizes the addition of another warm body next to his. He makes grabby hands for Michael until Michael is pressed nearly flush against him and Luke is satisfied. Michael smiles to himself, feeling waves of friendship wash over him, and he drifts back off to sleep.

When he wakes the second time, it is to a loud and exasperated yelp of _Newt!_ followed by Luke’s giggle. Michael knows before he even opens his eyes that Ashton’s hair is proving to be a little too hazardous for the Newt’s easy escape. Sure enough, when he finally pushes off enough vestiges of sleep to chance opening his eyes, he sees Ashton sitting up on the bed with Newt-the-hedgehog firmly tangled in Ashton’s curls.

Luke is a ball of laughter at the foot of the bed. His eyes dance with raw amusement. Ashton shoots him a glare—or tries to, at least. Michael doesn’t think Ashton has the ability to ever be unhappy with Luke, even when Luke himself has no quarrels about garnering amusement at Ashton’s expense.

“A lot of help you are, Luke,” grumbles Ashton, but the overwhelming fondness in his voice undermines any bite that his words may have had. He sighs, giving up on his endeavor to chastise Luke. He turns to Michael instead. “A little help, please?”

The sight of Newt tangled up in Ashton’s hair and making no move whatsoever to indicate that he wants to be anywhere else makes Michael grin. He finds himself near laughter, too, but Ashton looks so helpless that Michael beats back the urge to join in on Luke’s amusement. He sits up as best he can. He nearly topples off the side of the bed for his effort. His limbs are still heavy with sleep, but Luke grabs him by the wrist quickly and tugs him farther away from the edge. Michael smiles at Luke in appreciation before he turns his attention to Ashton and Newt.

“Newt likes you,” he says.

“He also likes prickling me, thanks to Luke,” says Ashton mournfully. He reaches up to pet Newt, and Newt, true to Ashton’s word, balls up a little bit to show off his quills. Ashton winces as they poke the tips of his fingers. “See? Luke has taught him it means he likes you, because Luke always feeds him treats afterward.”

“Because Newt should know he’s loved and that he doesn’t have to be scared around us,” says Luke. His laughter has dried up by now, but he hasn’t moved from his spot at the foot of the bed. His face is pressed against Calum’s duvet, so his words come out a little muffled. “He wasn’t happy when Michael was asleep for so long, and I was worried. Feeding him treats was the only way to get him to eat at all.”

Michael feels overcome with the urge to hug Luke for caring so much for Newt. He has noticed over the last few days how fond of Newt Luke is—and how fond of Luke Newt is in return—but he hadn’t really considered exactly why that might be beyond the fact that Luke and Calum and Ashton took care of Newt for the week that Michael had been unable to. The idea that Luke cared so much about Newt—about _Michael_ —brings another wave of friendship crashing over Michael, and he can’t help but to smile. Luke smiles back, though it’s half-hidden in Calum’s duvet.

“Mikey, please?” asks Ashton when Michael does nothing except stare fondly at Luke for a few moments.

Michael snaps out of his stupor, letting the comfort of friendship settle into his bones. He scoots across the bed until he is seated in front of Ashton, and he runs his finger along Newt’s back, wincing as Newt’s quills prick along his skin. Newt puts away his quills in favor of nudging up into Michael’s palm. Gently, Michael picks Newt up and uses his other hand to free the last of Ashton’s curls from their spiky prison.

“Thanks,” says Ashton the moment Newt is free. He reaches out to pet Newt, who noses up against the tip of Ashton’s forefinger as a tiny apology for causing him such trouble. He speaks in a soft and gentle voice to the hedgehog. “Next time, you should stick to sleeping in Luke’s hair. You won’t get stuck, and it’s much softer than mine anyway.”

When Ashton is done petting Newt, Michael sets Newt down on the bed. Happy and cared for, Newt crawls to the pillow, where he curls up in a ball and promptly goes back to sleep. Michael feels a spike of jealousy. He is probably still tired enough to be able to slip back off to sleep if he tries hard enough. The pillow smells like Calum, and Michael feels safe and loved here, so he kind of does want to do exactly that.

“Are you coming to Hogsmeade with us?” asks Ashton, drawing Michael’s attention away from Newt.

Michael blinks at him. “I thought you and Luke were having a date.”

“We don’t want you to feel left out,” says Ashton.

Luke echoes him from the foot of the bed. Michael feels another wave of friendship crash over him. He revels in it. He doesn’t ever want to take this for granted, because he doesn’t ever want to lose it. He has once, and it felt like his entire world had ended. He doesn’t think he could stand to lose these people again. Given the promises they’ve all made—promises he knows they’d rather die than break—he doesn’t think he will.

“I’m not going to third-wheel your date,” says Michael. “That’s your time to spend together, and, honestly, the two of you deserve it.”

“But you’ll be all alone,” says Ashton.

“I’ve got Newt. He’s good company,” says Michael, “and besides, I don’t want to third-wheel your date, because I’ve got my own to look forward to.”

“You and Calum?” asks Luke, sitting up in excitement. His hair sticks straight up on one side. There is a crease line from Calum’s duvet running along his cheek. “When did this happen?”

“No, me and Niall. There is just something about the way he looks on a broomstick,” says Michael, but he’s laughing too much by the end of it to stick to his guns. Ashton and Luke lose themselves to laughter, too, and when everybody sobers, Michael continues on more seriously. “Yeah, me and Calum—officially, by the way. He asked me this morning on the quidditch pitch. I took him through a void, because he was running so late, and, well, we had _the_ important talk.”

“Before practice?” asks Ashton, raising his eyebrows. “I thought Calum was running late?”

“Are you really surprised, Ash?” asks Luke. His voice is full of amusement. “Calum has never been good at being on time—he nearly missed the train back here last year, because there was a crate of puppies outside of the station.”

Ashton laughs and concedes, “That’s true.”

“I’m happy that you and Cal had the talk upfront,” says Luke to Michael. He glances briefly at Ashton, and he reaches for him, like he misses Ashton’s touch. Ashton meets him halfway, their fingers tangling together. “The two of us almost waited a little too late, and then what? We would have both been unhappy, and I wouldn’t get to kiss Ashton—which, by the way, is the best part.”

Ashton blushes and ducks his head, looking altogether like he feels too big for his skin. Michael almost feels that way himself from just seeing at the way Luke is looking at Ashton—like there is nothing more precious in the entire world. It’s the same way Ashton always regards Luke, and Michael feels blessed by just being able to witness the amount of love his two friends are nourishing between them.

“We’ll all meet up later, though, won’t we?” Luke asks Michael when he can finally bring himself to look away from Ashton. “I mean, it’s the first Hogsmeade trip that the four of us will go on as friends, and we should celebrate it properly.”

“We should,” agrees Ashton once he has recovered. His cheeks are still stained pink, but he at least manages to look at Michael instead of his lap. “With Butterbeer from the Three Broomsticks.”

It sounds like a plan to Michael, so he agrees. They all get up from the bed one-by-one after that. Luke and Ashton need to get ready to leave for Hogsmeade, and Michael decides to stave off an extra hour or two of sleep in favor of reading in the library. He tugs back on Calum’s jumper. It feels just as nice now as it did this morning. He places Newt in the pocket of his robes, careful to not jostle Newt more than necessary, and then he walks out of the Hufflepuff dungeon with Luke and Ashton.

“Are you sure you’re all right by yourself?” asks Ashton, looking around Luke to meet Michael’s eyes. He has his arm wrapped around Luke’s shoulder, so Luke has to slouch a little to allow Ashton such a movement. “Madam Pomfrey said you were to be watched for a few days.”

“It’s just the library. I’m not going to be doing anything strenuous in there,” says Michael. “I’ll be fine.”

“I worry,” says Ashton.

“Thank you for that,” says Michael, and he really does mean it. He likes that Ashton and Luke and Calum worry about him. That he seems to matter enough to them for them to be concerned about him. “But I was serious earlier when I said you and Luke deserve some time on your own together.”

They have reached the ground floor now, finally clear of the dungeons. They slow to a stop, turning to face one another, Luke and Ashton tangled together across from Michael. This is their parting point.

“You don’t deserve to be alone, though,” says Luke, quietly, like he is torn between frog-marching Michael to Hogsmeade village right now and having Ashton all to himself. “You’ve been alone for too long.”

Michael smiles sadly at him. He is overcome again with the urge to hug Luke. This time, he doesn’t hesitate. He steps forward and throws his arms around Luke, which also means he has to drag Ashton to him, too, and he hugs them both as tight as he can.

“This is different,” says Michael, softly into the space between Luke and Ashton’s heads so that they can both hear him. “I’m not alone now, not really. I have you lot. We’re friends, and I can’t be lonely with friends.”

Luke and Ashton both open their mouths simultaneously to dispute Michael’s statement, but Michael doesn’t give them the opportunity.

“Just think of it as me waiting on Calum, all right? He’ll be done in a little while, and then we’ll head on down to Hogsmeade, and then all of us will meet up at the Three Broomsticks.”

Ashton sighs. “Promise?”

“Promise,” says Michael, and he steps back from the other two, pushing them toward the door. “Now, go before I change my mind and actually do third-wheel your date. Trust me when I say that I won’t let you two kiss.”

Luke and Ashton laugh, not bothered at all by Michael’s threat. They oblige his wish, though, and start walking toward the large oak doors that lead outside. Michael throws up a wave when Luke glances back at him one last time. Luke sticks his tongue out in response before he and Ashton disappear through the doors.

While Luke and Ashton head off to Hogsmeade, hand-in-hand like the lovers they are, Michael makes his way toward the library. Calum has practice all morning, first with the entire team and then with just the chasers. Hufflepuff has a decisive match against Slytherin coming up. Niall has been pushing his team to train harder than ever, because he can’t, apparently, lose the Quidditch Cup to the Slytherins two years in a row.

As a result, Michael has a couple of hours to pass by himself until Calum is free. He can’t think of a better way to spend it than curled up with his book and Newt. He has never really gotten over the serenity that blankets the library, even after four and a half, almost five years, of seeking refuge in it. The tiny nook in the back of it, hidden between the shelves with a window view of the quidditch pitch, has been his home here at Hogwarts more than the Slytherin dungeon ever was. It is here that he has sought solitude when the unkindness of his peers became too much, and it is here that he still returns even now that he’s gotten everything he’s ever wanted.

He sits down in the armchair next to the window. He digs Newt out of his pocket and lets him crawl over to the windowsill where the transfigured nest of old, unused books waits for him. Newt heads for it immediately, and he curls up in a ball on it, and he looks at peace instantly. It strikes Michael just how long it has been since he or Newt have gone here, and it almost makes him sad until he remembers that he really have a reason to hide out in the library now that he has friends.

Michael settles into the armchair and tries to get comfortable. Once he does, he pulls a small book out of his other pocket, and he taps it with the end of his wand, enlarging it to its original size. It doesn’t quite give him the same giddiness that it had the first time he’d set his eyes on this book, but he is on the final chapter of the old, weathered _Advanced Spells: What you don’t Learn in School_ , and he wants to finish it. He pushes aside the unkind thoughts the names Louis and Zayn provoke in him now. They were friends with him then—or, at least, they were some kind of semblances of his friends—and they were kind enough to indulge his love for new spells. He doesn’t want to miss out on new magic just because they aren’t friends with him anymore. 

He has mastered most of the spells thus far. The ones that he hasn’t actually mastered, he has become quite proficient in. The last chapter, though, throws Michael through a loop by the title alone: "Fractured Magic." Michael flips through the last few pages and sees dozens of diagrams and pictures and tables—certainly much more than the previous chapters had contained. It makes him curious, eager to learn. He turns back to the first page and begins to read.

Time slips away from him. He loses himself to the narration. This chapter isn’t so much about the spellwork as it is about the theories behind it. Michael soaks up every single word he can. It is fascinating, to say the least, but a tiny ball of horror begins to form in his stomach as he realizes exactly what this chapter is about. The ball only gets larger and larger with every page.

“Did you miss me?”asks Calum, almost appearing out of nowhere. “Of course, you did, because I missed you.”

Michael jumps, startled. He feels off-kilter, like he’s half of a second away from plunging off the edge of a rocky cliff and the ground is unsteady beneath his feet. He snaps the book shut, glancing up at Calum who grinning at him in the doorway. Calum has changed out of his quidditch practice robes into normal, clean ones. He looks freshly showered, too, as his skin is absence of the normal sweat and grime of training underneath Niall’s captainship. The grin slips from Calum’s face. He steps farther into the nook.

“Is everything all right?” he asks, concerned.

“Of course. You just startled me. That’s all,” says Michael.

He tries for a smile that falls dead on his lips. Calum glances down at the book in Michael’s hand. He frowns at the title. Michael whips out his wand and taps the book, shrinking it back down to pocket-sized. He puts it away, tucking his wand back into his robes. He wishes the horror was as easy to put out of his mind. 

“How was practice?” he asks, changing the subject, because he doesn’t want to talk about what he thinks he might have just stumbled across or about the fact that the book was a gift from Louis and Zayn. It’s a pride thing, maybe, but mainly he doesn’t want to admit how _low_ he felt at Christmas and how much this book meant to him—how much he almost wishes he would have never gotten it, no matter that he loves it so much he’s nearly finished with it.

Calum chews on his bottom lip, looking every bit like he wants to chase an inquiry after the book, but in the end he says, “I think my arse is numb from that damn broomstick, and your warming charm wore off about half of an hour too soon.”

“I’m sorry.”

“Don’t be. Niall is a maniac, and if we don’t beat Slytherin, I fear Niall might _beat_ _us_ with his broomstick,” says Calum, laughing. “But enough about that. I don’t want to think about Niall for a very, very long time—until like Monday at our next practice. I want to take you out on our date.”

Calum holds out his hand toward Michael, intending to help him up. Michael smiles up at him, but he collects Newt first and tucks Newt into his pocket. He makes sure Newt is nice and comfortable, only drawing back when Newt prickles his fingers, clearly happy. Michael winces. He finally takes Calum’s hand, and Calum pulls him straight into a kiss.

“Are you ready?” asks Calum.

“Yep,” says Michael. He pushes aside all thoughts of the book and what it contains, and he focuses instead on Calum before him. “Can we go to the Shrieking Shack first?”

“A man after my own heart,” says Calum. “Of course we can.”

He kisses Michael again before they leave. They walk hand-in-hand all of the way out of the castle, where they only break apart so that Michael can perform a warming charm on them both. As soon as Michael puts his wand back in his pocket, Calum wraps his arm around Michael’s shoulders and pulls him close. Together, they walk down the winding path toward the village.


	23. Chapter 23

Hogsmeade is… it is magical. Michael hasn’t been since he was a third year, eager to be allowed out of the castle for the first time. He had enjoyed it back then, but it had been lonesome. He had gone to Honeydukes and to the Shrieking Shack and to the Three Broomsticks, and he had walked along the streets surrounded by the elated voices of his classmates, and a sort of insurmountable loneliness had crept into his bones. So he had taken one last look at the magnificence that was the village before he trekked back to Hogwarts.

He had never returned.

He had never had any reason to go back until now. Calum has his arm wrapped around Michael’s shoulder as they walk down the path toward the village. Calum doesn’t let go. When they get there, the village is already buzzing with life from the other students who have been here all morning. Calum calls out a greeting to some of them, and he wears a grin on his face the whole time like he has never been more proud to be with anybody like he is now with Michael. It warms Michael to his bones, much more than the warming spell he had cast on them both does.

They head to Shrieking Shack first, and they stand next to the fence looking out at it, and Michael thinks about the history before them on this very ground. The magic here feels a whole lot like it does back at Hogwarts in the places that the war ransacked the worst. Michael feels the familiar tug, and he knows he could draw a void right here if he wanted to. He doesn’t. He and Calum walk back toward the village instead.

They stop in at Honeydukes next, because it is tradition, according to Calum. Michael buys a small box of Bertie Bott’s Every Flavour Beans and a package of Sugar Quills while Calum peruses the choices of chocolate. When Calum finally goes to pay for his items, he directs Michael toward the door.

“It’s too crowded, and it’ll only take me a minute, I swear,” says Calum, and he leans forward to press his lips against Michael’s in a brief kiss for all of their classmates in the shop to see. He is grinning when they part, and he motions Michael toward the door.

Michael goes without fuss, his lips tingling from the kiss, and he ignores all of the weighted gazes he feels follow him out into the street. It isn’t anything that he hasn’t felt before, his classmates’ critical gazes, but it is nice that Calum is proud enough of him to kiss him as freely whenever he wants. It feels nice to be wanted and nicer still that others know he is wanted, too—that he is more than just a dirty Slytherin.

Calum makes good on his promise. Michael hardly has enough time to shuffle out of the way of the foot traffic into and out of the shop before Calum snakes his arm back around Michael’s shoulder and pulls him close. His bag of Honeydukes’ candy dangles from his other hand. He presses another kiss to Michael’s lips, missing all but the corner of them.

“Can we go to the quidditch shop next?” asks Calum, nicely, like he expects Michael to tell him no.

“I’ll follow you wherever you want,” says Michael, because it is true. “Though I’m surprised you haven’t already had enough quidditch for today.”

Calum throws his head back and laughs jollily as they set off for the shop just up the street. Michael smiles triumphantly for eliciting such a beautiful sound from Calum. He thinks about how isolated he had felt the first time he had visited Hogsmeade, and he wishes he could go back in time to talk to thirteen-year-old Michael and tell him that Hogsmeade is even more magical with Calum, that he should hold out for Calum. It might have been a lot less lonely back then if he had known that one day he would come back with friends and, more importantly, with Calum himself.

“Oh, I’ve had my fair share of quidditch for the day, yes, but I ordered a new pair of gloves, and they are supposed to be in,” explains Calum. “Mine are starting to rip down the seams. It makes handling the quaffle a bloody lot harder, and Niall really might curse me into the next century if I drop the quaffle against Slytherin.”

Michael can definitely see Niall doing such a thing. He tells Calum as much as they enter Sprintwitches Sporting Needs, and Calum laughs again. Michael immediately feels out of his element, surrounded by all of the quidditch supplies, but Calum looks right at home.

There are a few Hogwarts students ambling through the shop. Michael recognizes a couple of Ravenclaw quidditch team members who stop and talk to Calum about his opinion on broomstick servicing kits. Michael hadn’t realized it was such a big deal, but Calum and the Ravenclaws talk with so much sophistication that Michael is left in awe. He remembers what Ashton had said so long ago about Calum playing quidditch professionally, and it’s all too easy to picture that future now as he listens to Calum talk.

The Ravenclaws thank Calum for his opinion, though Michael notices they don’t actually purchase the particular kit Calum recommends the most. They wish Calum luck against the upcoming Slytherin game. Before they leave, they nod at Michael in a friendly manner as if it isn’t odd at all that Calum hasn’t been able to take his hands off Michael since they came in.

Michael likes how clingy Calum is, because, truthfully, he is as tactile with Calum as Calum is with him. They walk down the aisles together, but it is so cramped in here that they can’t walk side-by-side, so they hold hands instead. They wander along looking at the items for a while, and Michael listens to Calum talk about the pros and cons about each one. Michael thinks he could listen to Calum talk all day long.

When Calum goes up to the shopkeeper to inquire about his order, Michael slips away from him under the guise of checking out the selection on quidditch books. He waits until Calum’s back is turned before he ducks into the aisle they had just left. He glances toward the back of the shop to make sure he is still in the clear before he picks up the item and all but runs to the till.

Calum meets him out front a few minutes later, and Michael’s purchase is nearly burning a hole in his pocket. He can’t wait to give it to Calum, can’t wait to see Calum’s unfiltered response. Michael has never had anybody to get gifts for before, unless he counts the pies he had kindly asked the house elves to make him at Christmas to send to everybody who had gotten him something. This is different, though. This, Michael has gotten to pick out, and he really hopes Calum likes it.

“Did you get what you ordered?” asks Michael.

“Yep, and they feel so amazing that I almost didn’t want to take them off,” says Calum. He pats his pocket where, presumably, the shrunken gloves are carefully stowed away. “I’m all set to catch some quaffles now, so where to next?”

_Anywhere_ , Michael wants to say, because he doesn’t ever want this day to end. It’s been so nice. He and Calum have been wrapped around each almost this whole time, and Calum has kissed him in front of everybody, and Michael has the best present in the entire world to surprise Calum with later.

“Wherever you want,” is what Michael says instead.

But Calum grins at Michael and says, “I think it should be wherever _you_ want, because I’ve practically dragged you everywhere. This is supposed to be our date, and I don’t want to hog everything.”

“I think I technically chose to go to the Shack first,” says Michael, “and I really wanted some jelly beans, and I had a great teacher-esque lecture me all about what type of broomstick oil works best with what type of wood. It hasn’t all been about you.”

Calum ducks his head, his cheeks darkening a pretty color. “I just really like quidditch, okay? Like, I swear I used Fleetwood's High-Finish Handle Polish on my old Cleansweep, and I was picking Spanish oak splinters out of my arse for ages afterward!”

“But not your hands?” deadpans Michael. It takes everything he has to not crack a smile. “Does Niall make you, like, practice quidditch naked to get better acquainted with the game?”

“Wha— _no!_ ” squeaks Calum, indignant until Michael breaks down laughing. His indignation morphs into a glare that really isn’t much in itself, as Calum is grinning too fondly at Michael to truly pull off mock-irritation. “I swear, Luke is a bad influence on you.”

Calum doesn’t sound too upset by that, and Michael himself doesn’t feel like that is much of an insult anyway. He tells Calum as much then leans in to give Calum a short peck on the lips, but Calum latches on for an actual kiss. Michael smiles into it, happy and so in love with Calum that he can hardly breathe. When they break apart, Calum chases Michael’s lips for one last kiss.

“Where to next?” propositions Calum again.

They end up wandering aimlessly down the streets, popping into random stores and kissing each other whenever they feel like it—which is quite often. They get a laugh out of the joke shop, as expected, and Calum walks out of it with a dusting of purple powder clinging to the tips of his hair from walking a little too close to the employee’s practical demonstration. She had been so apologetic about it that she had given both Calum and Michael a free package of Skiving Snackbox each and told them they looked like a lovely couple.

Halfway down the street, Michael’s cheeks are still burning, and neither he nor Calum have stopped smiling.

The day is winding down. The curfew will come in just a little while, so Calum leads Michael into the Three Broomsticks where they are to meet up with Luke and Ashton. They stop by the bar first. Calum buys them both Butterbeers. Michael tries to buy his own, but Calum waves him off.

“It’s a date, remember? I haven’t gotten to treat you properly yet.”

So Michael doesn’t put up a fuss, especially since Calum’s gift is still setting in his pocket ready for him to give it to Calum later. When they get their drinks, Calum carries them both, without spilling them, all the way to the back of the pub. It must be their typical hang-out spot, because Calum leads Michael straight to Luke and Ashton without a single wrong turn. Calum sets the Butterbeers down on the table then scoots into the booth, leaving enough space for Michael to sit as well.

Ashton has foam from his own partially-drank Butterbeer on his top lip. Michael thinks about telling him as much, but Luke kisses Ashton first, and there is no point in saying anything thereafter. Michael takes a drink of his own Butterbeer instead. It goes down smoothly, like butterscotch and magic and love. Michael takes another gulp, nearly downing half of it, because it tastes so good.

“Did you have a good date?” asks Ashton as a way of greeting once his lips are no longer occupied by Luke.

“Of course. Did you?” challenges Calum, grinning devilishly.

Ashton blushes a pretty shade of pink. Both he and Luke look like they’ve spent the majority of the day hidden away somewhere with their lips locked together. Given his reaction to Calum’s question, Michael figures that is exactly what they have been up to.

“We went to the music shop,” says Luke, grinning in excitement. “Mr. Maestro let Ash play the new drum kit he has in stock. It was sick.”

“I didn’t know you played the drums,” says Michael.

“Yeah, I fancied myself a big time rockstar when I was a kid,” says Ashton, grinning. “That was way before I found out about the whole magic thing, you know?”

Michael doesn’t know, not really, because he has always known about he had magic. The kids he played with as a child were magical, too. He never really thought of what it might be like to be muggleborn, what it might be like if to grow up completely oblivious to the world he actually belonged to. The thing about being the heir to an ancient pureblood family obsessed with the ways of the old regime is that Michael never really had a reason to put himself into Ashton’s shoes.

“That’s still a thing you can do,” says Luke. He takes a sip of his Butterbeer then sets it back down on the table so that he can swirl his pointer finger through the creamy foam at the top. He licks his finger clean, grinning like a little kid. “Think of the golden age of wizard rock! You could be, like, the next Weird Sisters or, like, Lorcan d’Eath.”

“OK, so, yes, being the next Weird Sisters is sort of like my dream, but I draw the line at being the next Lorcan d’Eath—I’m not into that whole vampire thing,” says Ashton. He scrunches up his nose when he says the word ‘vampire.’ Luke laughs at him, so he rolls his eyes in a manner that is entirely too fond to pack much of a punch. “Hey, it’s not like you would appreciate me being a vampire, either. You wouldn’t want to kiss me then.”

“I’d always want to kiss you,” says Luke.

He leans forward to press a quick kiss to the corner of Ashton’s mouth. It sort of backfires on him when Ashton turns the brevity of it into something longer, and Luke nearly elbows his Butterbeer off the table as he reaches up to cup Ashton’s face. Michael saves the drink at the last second possible, whipping out his wand to right it again. Luke pulls back away from Ashton, glancing sheepishly down at his drink. He smiles his gratitude at Michael, a bright blush tickling his cheeks.

Luke’s gaze drifts away from Michael to a fixed point behind him. A frown forms on his face. He drops his hand casually to his lap, but Michael can see the way Luke’s hand hovers over his own wand like he is seriously concerned that he might need it. Curious, Michael glances over his shoulder. His eyes lock with those of Liam, who is seated at the next table over. Michael suddenly understands Luke’s trepidation, as there are two empty seats at the table with Liam, Harry, and Niall. They’re obviously for Louis and Zayn.

“Glad to see you out and about, Michael,” says Liam, ever so nicely. It’s a little hard to hear him from a table away, given the chatter in the pub, but his voice carries clear enough. “Was right worried about you. Me and Harry and Niall dropped by for a visit a time or two.”

“We did,” agreed Harry, leaning back in his chair to look around Liam at Michael. He shoots Michael his signature dazzling grin, dimples and everything. “Niall told us this morning you walked Calum to practice. That was nice of you.”

“Nice?” repeats Niall. He winks lewdly at Michael. “I thought I was going to have to borrow a beaters bat to get them to keep their lips off each other.”

Michael blushes a dark red. Niall laughs, meaning no harm, and he gives Michael a thumbs up. Liam and Harry join in, and neither one look repulsed by the idea of Michael and Calum together. Michael finds he doesn’t really care what they think, but it is nice that they approve. This entire afternoon, he’s gotten used to his classmates stares, and so far nobody has been mean, not like he feared they would be. Quite oppositely, everybody has been nice to him. Nicer than they usually are, at least.

“You’re just jealous, Niall,” teases Calum. His hand finds Michael’s under the table, and he threads their fingers together. Michael likes how they feel pressed snug against each other. “I heard you bemoaning your loneliness all throughout practice.”

“Hey, don’t kick a man while he’s down. I can have you running laps for that,” threatens Niall, but the laughter has never really left him, so the words themselves carry nothing.

“But you won’t. You’re about as daunting as a Puffskein, Nialler,” says Nick Grimshaw as a manner of greeting.

He plops down in the empty seat next to Niall and ruffles his hair with his free hand. Niall beats him away. Nick laughs, drawing back a safe distance from Niall. He takes a drink of his Firewhisky before he sets it down on the table. Next to him, one of his Gryffindor seventh year friends takes the last seat. Michael doesn’t know his name, but the bloke offers a general greeting to everybody except Liam and Ashton, whom he calls by their names.

Nick looks at Harry once he’s done pestering Niall. “Where’s Tomlinson? Aren’t the two of you typically up to as much mischief as possible during Hogsmeade visits?”

The smile fades from Harry’s cheeks. His eyes flash toward Michael, briefly. They skirt away almost as quick as they land, as if Michael himself were made of fire. Michael’s stomach starts to knot. He isn’t sure he wants to know why Harry is acting so strange at the mention of Louis.

“I haven’t seen much of him lately,” says Harry, slow and drawling, after a moment. He speaks like he is always does, but there is an extra beat between his words like he is purposefully choosing the right ones—or, rather, like he is purposefully straying away from the wrong ones. “Guess all Slytherins get stuck up the arses of their own house after a while.”

It’s the most unkind thing Michael has ever heard Harry say about anybody ever. It only sounds worse because Harry is talking about Louis, the wizard he has been trailing after like a lovesick puppy for Merlin knows how long. The knots in Michael’s stomach tighten painfully. He pushes his Butterbeer away from him. He doesn’t want it anymore, fearful that he might vomit it back up.

“Ah, should have know Louis and Zayn spending all their time with Finn and Archer and the rest of the Slytherins would be a sore subject. Sorry, H,” says Nick, wincing. “I hope they both pull their heads out of their arses soon.”

As much as Nick doesn’t like Louis, he genuinely does sound like he means what he says. Harry says something back, but Michael isn’t listening anymore. He doesn’t want to know anything else about Louis and Zayn, because every time he thinks about either of them, he thinks about the hospital wing the other day when Louis had attacked Luke, and Michael almost hadn’t been quick enough to save his friend. Michael doesn’t want to remember that. He doesn’t want to remember that Luke was almost hurt or that it had been _Louis_ who had attacked him— _Louis_ , the person who had taken Michael under his wing when he had nowhere else to turn.

“C’mon,” murmurs Calum in Michael’s ear, like he can hear the thoughts that are running diseased through Michael’s mind. “Let’s get out of here. Maybe stop by the bookshop on the way back to Hogwarts. I saw you eyeing it earlier.”

It’s true that Michael would like to go to the bookshop, but he and Calum had been in such a hurry to meet up with Luke and Ashton that he hadn’t minded not going. Now, though, Michael sees the out for what it is. He is so relieved that he kisses Calum, and Calum kisses him back, and then two of them stand up from the table.

Luke and Ashton mirror them, no questions asked. As they’re walking out, Calum leads the way, his hand linked with Michael’s the entire time. Ashton follows behind, walking barely half of a step behind Michael. Luke, on the other hand, walks side-by-side with Michael, though the set-up of the pub doesn’t really allow such and he ends up bumping into the other students. Luke doesn’t care, though. He stays as close to Michael as possible, like he is Michael’s own personal shield, and Michael doesn’t even have the words to express how thankful he is for these people—for the fact that he wasn’t comfortable sitting back there hearing all about Louis and Zayn, and Calum and Luke and Ashton knew that, and they got him out of there safe and sound.

When they finally emerge from the pub, they huddle together out of the way of the foot traffic. Michael doesn’t know who instigates it—maybe Ashton but probably Calum—but three sets of arms wrap around him. Michael soaks up the hug for all it’s worth, before he finally regains his senses to hug them back. His face is pressed against Calum’s shoulder, trapped on the other side by Luke. Ashton’s hand is splayed big and wide and protectively in the small of Michael’s back. The knots in Michael’s stomach start to untwist.  

They stand four-strong and invincible.


	24. Chapter 24

Michael is behind in nearly every subject when he returns to classes like normal on Monday. Most of his professors are understanding about his absence and give him something similar to a free pass for the work as long as he demonstrates magical proficiency of the brand new spells. Michael is good at spell work, of course, so he has no trouble learning the magic he has missed. Ashton, Luke, and Calum are more than happy to help Michael out in addition to their own school work. The only big hurdle Michael has to overcome is the weakness of his tired magic, but he regains his strength a little more every day, thanks to Madam Pomfrey’s potions, until he is back up to par.

By that Friday, therefore, Michael is completely caught up in every single subject, except potions. Professor Slughorn had been the only professor who had insisted Michael make up the missed lessons after lunch when Michael was free from his other classes. Potioneering, according to Professor Slughorn, is an art that requires a careful, steady hand and cannot be learned by anything other than practical application. The joke, however, is on Professor Slughorn in the end: Ashton and Luke have made sure to supply Michael with a vial of every potion they had done in class, so all Michael has to do is try his own hand at the potion, inevitably fail, then hand over the perfectly brewed vial for Professor Slughorn’s approval.

Michael feels almost guilty that things are working so well for him, but he needs to pass potions. His performance in the class is mediocre at best. He needs all of the help he can get, really, to ensure that he does well enough to not have to repeat the class next year. He has already had to double down studying for the written portion of the upcoming O.W.L.s—has done so since two months into his fourth year when he realized that it was the only way he had any chance of getting at least an ‘Acceptable’ on the potions test—and he doesn’t want to give Professor Slughorn the satisfaction of outright failing him.

Dutifully, Michael goes to his additional potion lessons every afternoon. He tries his best to brew the assigned potions as close to the instructions as possible, but the final results never turn out the way they’re supposed to, so he hands in the nearly-perfect concoctions Ashton or Luke had previously given him. Professor Slughorn, who keeps to himself during Michael’s lessons, is thankfully none the wiser.

If Michael had any reservations about accepting Luke and Ashton’s help, they all go out the window when, on Tuesday afternoon, Professor Slughorn takes one look at Michael’s barely-started potion and offers to go ahead and give Michael half of the possible points, because, apparently, _there is no salvaging that_.

Friday morning, standing on the edge of the forest with a bucket of raw meat for the Thestrals, Michael is dreading his final extra potions lesson that afternoon. He is also looking forward to getting them done so that he can spend his evening with Calum and with Ashton and Luke, though, admittedly, Calum hasn’t had a free evening this entire week. The Hufflepuff-Slytherin quidditch match is tomorrow, so Niall has spent the entire week making sure his team is ready for it. Hufflepuff, according to Niall, needs this win more than they’ve needed any other this entire year.

“You don’t have Newt with you, do you?” asks Ashton as he and Michael step a little farther into the forest with the rest of the class where the herd of Thestrals like to feed. He has own bucket dangling loosely from his left hand. “The Thestrals are looking at us funny.”

“No,” answers Michael. “I asked Luke if he minded watching him this morning. I’d rather Newt not get eaten.”

It is ridiculous, really, that Ashton would think that Michael would even consider bringing Newt to Care of Magical Creatures when Michael had known beforehand that they were going to be working with the Thestrals. He remembers the last time they had worked with the beasts, how unnerving it had felt to be nudged around by something he couldn’t see. He had, therefore, elected to not bring Newt with him to class. Luke had been all too eager to volunteer to watch the tiny hedgehog when Michael had voiced his concern about the Thestrals this morning at breakfast. Michael feels oddly lonely without Newt sleeping away in his pocket, but he knows that Newt is in good hands. Luke is probably feeding Newt all the treats Newt could possibly want and then some.

“We are carrying buckets of meat for them,” Michael points out a beat later. “They probably smell that.”

“Probably,” agrees Ashton, distractedly.

Ashton grabs a slab of raw meat out of his pail and tosses it a few meters in front of them. It never actually makes it to the ground, disappearing in midair. Ashton grabs another piece. He throws it in the same place. This time, it slides across the forest floor before it, too, is devoured into nothingness.

“There’s a pair to your left, just beside of that gnarled tree. Throw them some food before they ambush us for our buckets,” says Ashton.

Michael obeys. The meat feels sticky and cold in his hands. He wrinkles his nose in distaste but tosses the meat toward the gnarled tree like directed. It disappears in midair in a spot that is considerably closer than Ashton had led on, so Michael immediately throws another piece in the same direction.

Class goes on. They are all supposed to become comfortable dealing with animals that most of them can’t see, as Professor Hagrid points out that they won’t always be able to see everything that they are faced with in life. That’s just the nature of some magic. Thestrals are a good hands-on approach to that lesson, since Hogwarts’ herd is relatively tame and feeding the Thestrals isn’t a difficult task.

The problem, though, lies in the face that the majority of the class cannot see where the Thestrals are, so the forest floor becomes littered with meat that students have haphazardly thrown in places void of Thestrals. All of the food will eventually be eaten later, Professor Hagrid assures them, but in the mean time, the students have to suffer through trial-and-error to determine where a Thestral might be for feeding—except Ashton, and by extent Michael, of course.

Michael is thankful that Ashton can see the beasts. It makes the lesson a whole lot easier, and Michael has stopped jumping every time he hears something move behind him, since most of those occurrences have had nothing to do with the Thestrals but rather the slight breeze of the wind. Ashton tells Michael where the Thestrals are, cycling through a group of them one-by-one until they’ve all been fed to their max. Michael follows Ashton’s every command, trusting him doubtlessly.

They run out of food for the Thestrals well before the other students, as Ashton has directed every toss to the Thestrals to ensure that all of the meat gets eaten. Professor Hagrid awards ten points to both Gryffindor and Slytherin houses, praising them for their inter-house cooperation. Michael and Ashton spend the last fifteen minutes of class seated upon an old log, staring across the forest at their classmates still trying to learn how to work with the Thestrals. Michael pulls out his wand and does a quick cleaning spell over both him and Ashton. The dirt and blood and grime from the lesson disappears instantly.

“I was in a muggle car accident when I was ten,” says Ashton, quiet, after they’ve been sitting in silence for a couple of minutes. He doesn’t glance over at Michael. He is instead looking out across the forest or, at least, it seems like he is. Ashton can see more than anybody else in this class, so maybe he is watching the Thestrals instead. “It was raining, and another car hydroplaned—er, slid into ours. It was—it was the scariest thing I’ve ever experienced. There was this ugly sound. Muggle metal isn’t meant to twist and break, but this did, and it sounded horrible. It sounded like the end of the everything. Like the world itself was screaming at the top of its lungs. I’ll never forget it.”

Ashton pauses. He sighs, raggedly, and motions to the forest before them. Michael thinks he’s referring to the Thestrals. Ashton’s next words only confirm his suspicion.

“I can’t forget it.”

Michael doesn’t like the pain in Ashton’s voice or the frown on Ashton’s lips. The truth is that Michael only knows the scarcest bit about muggle automobiles. His parents certainly never bothered to drive one. They shunned cars like they snubbed all other muggle technology. Michael vaguely recalls riding in a car once when he was a kid and still friends with Calum, and Calum’s mother had brought the boys along to the muggle grocery store to help her pick out dinner that night. That experience, though, probably isn’t very reliable, as Michael can hardly remember anything about the muggle car. All he remembers from that particular event is that, afterwards, he had accidentally knocked a plate of biscuits off the table, and Calum’s mother hadn’t hit him in punishment. She had told him that _It’s okay, love. Accidents happen_. Then she had made a fresh, new batch and had given Michael first choice of the steaming hot biscuits.  

So Michael doesn’t know what to say, and he doesn’t really know what to do, either, to ease the pain in Ashton’s voice. He sits there quietly and lets Ashton talk this out himself, because, maybe, that is what Ashton needs to do. Michael doesn’t think this is a story Ashton tells very much. Ashton is certainly unpracticed at it. Maybe Ashton needs this chance to confide in a friend. Michael can do that for him. Michael can be his friend, so he stays silent and leans against Ashton to assure Ashton that he isn’t going anywhere. Ashton leans right back against him.

“The other driver, she didn’t make it. Everything was on fire, and the lady was screaming, and the paramedics—er, muggle mediwizards—didn’t get there in time. They couldn’t save her,” says Ashton in that same soft, regretful voice of his. He looks over at Michael then, his expression somber. “But that stuff? It doesn’t happen in this world. Magic can save anybody.”

Ashton speaks with such admirable conviction. He believes in magic whole-heartedly—believes it to be the end-all, cure-all—and for somebody who can see Thestrals because of the shortcomings of muggle capabilities, Michael understands Ashton’s plight. He does. He hates that Ashton has seen somebody die, somebody that magic could have no doubt saved.

But Michael knows that Ashton is wrong. Magic can’t save everybody.  It can’t. Sometimes it breaks. Sometimes it _fractures_. Sometimes it gets lost and never returns. Sometimes it gets hurt and never heals.

Ashton’s story stays with Michael long after they leave the Forbidden Forest. Michael thinks about telling Ashton what he knows about the shortcomings of magic, but he doesn’t. Truthfully, Michael is envious of Ashton’s naïve belief. He wishes he could share it. If he could, he would find it a hundred times easier living with himself, being oblivious to exactly what happened that day nearly a year ago when his whole world exploded.

When lunch comes, Michael follows Ashton to the Hufflepuff table where Calum and Luke are already seated. Michael sits down next to Calum, who immediately presses a soft kiss to Michael’s cheek as a greeting. Michael blushes but smiles nonetheless at Calum. He is just about to return the gesture when something across the table catches his eye.

“What is that?” he demands, staring at the tiny blue and bronze lump in the palm of Luke’s hand. He has his suspicions as to what it is, but he doesn’t understand why it is covered in what looks like a miniature jumper.

Luke grins up at him, not at all put off by the tinge of horror in Michael’s voice, and he says, “I got Newt a present! It’s a jumper that is supposed to make him feel safe all of the time, and now when he prickles, it doesn’t hurt.”

Proud of his ingenuity, Luke goes about demonstrating the magical capabilities of the tiny jumper. He reaches into the pocket of his robes and pulls out a tiny treat for Newt. Michael doesn’t want to know exactly how many treats Luke has indulged Newt with this morning, because he is almost afraid of the number. Luke holds the treat out to Newt, who ambles to edge of Luke’s other palm to eat the tiny treat in one large bite. Newt happily noses against Luke’s fingers. Luke laughs and goes to pet Newt, who unleashes his quills. Luke pets him anyway then grins up at Michael again.

“See? It doesn’t hurt!”

As if to further prove his point, Luke holds Newt across the table. Newt’s quills are still extended to their full sharpness, impeded only by the tiny, thin blue and bronze jumper. Hesitantly, Michael reaches out to run his finger down Newt’s prickly back. Newt, happy to see Michael, nudges up against Michael’s finger, and when Michael pets across Newt’s quills, true to Luke’s word, they are soft. Michael glances up at Luke, surprised and impressed.

“Where did you get this?” he asks.

“Made it during divination,” answers Luke, still grinning. “I got the idea last night, so I shrunk one of my old jumpers and then spent the entire class trying to get the spell to stick. I mean, it’s not like we’re learning anything important in there anyways. As long as you see something dreadful in the tea leaves, you’ll pass.”

Luke lets Newt crawl from his hand to Michael’s, not bothered at all by returning the hedgehog to his proper owner. Newt seems happy enough to be back in Michael’s possession, though he does nose against the tips of Luke’s fingers one last time. Michael cradles Newt against his chest and continues to pet him, happy that he no longer has to worry about being pricked whenever Newt is happy. Newt is always happy with him.

“You’re brilliant, Luke,” says Michael

Luke blushes like he doesn’t get told that very often, but Michael means every word. Luke is one of the smartest wizards Michael has ever met. He is fierce with a wand, and he does well in every class, even potions, and he has been so patient helping Michael catch up in his lessons. He even took the time to teach Michael the color-changing spell for his hair, though Michael had elected to leave it the deep shade of blue for now, as he had grown rather fond of it.

“Of course he is,” agrees Ashton, nudging Luke’s arm and smiling fondly at him. “He’s Luke.”

The gesture brings a bright blush to Luke’s cheeks, like all of the nice things Ashton does for him always seem to do. Michael has to avert his gaze from the pair of them. It is so intimate that he feels like he is intruding, even though it is simply nothing more than Ashton looking at Luke like he is the most precious thing in the entire world. Next to Michael, Calum can’t look at Luke and Ashton, either. He turns his attention to the food on the plate as if he is a starving man. Michael likes Calum’s tactic, and he is rather hungry, so he starts to pile his plate with the foods he can reach and starts to eat.

Luke breaks first a few minutes later, finally remembering himself. The blush in his cheeks have faded a little bit, but he doesn’t look one bit self-conscious of the intimacy he shared with Ashton. Instead, he seems rather proud, like he can’t believe Ashton is his to have.

“So the big Hufflepuff-Slytherin match is tomorrow,” says Luke, grinning over the table at Calum.  “Nervous?”

Calum snorts. “Not bloody likely. Niall’s a maniac. I don’t think I’ve ever had so much quality time with my broom as I have the past couple of weeks.”

“Oi, what you do on your own time is your concern, Hood, but you better not be doing any questionable business in the air,” interrupts Niall, who, seated next to Luke, is shamelessly  about his eavesdropping. He is easy humor in the way Niall always is, but the underlying threat is sincere. There are few things in life that Niall takes more serious than quidditch. “Don’t make me call a late night practice.”

“We’ve already got practice this afternoon,” says Calum as if he thinks Niall might have forgotten—or maybe hopes that Niall actually did forget.

But Niall hasn’t.

“Exactly,” he says ruthlessly. “We’ve got to beat Slytherin. I refuse lose the Cup to them this year.”

“Extra practicing won’t help, Nialler. Slytherin is still going to kick your arse,” greets Louis, jollily, strolling up to the table with Zayn and starting to sit down. He hesitates when he realizes Michael is seated in the next place down. “Oh, er—”

Michael’s heart lurches in his chest, and he tries not to think about how, once upon a time, Louis would not have hesitated. How Louis would not have had a reason to. How Louis was Michael’s   _friend_ and friends sit down next to one another without a second thought. But that isn’t how things are anymore. Louis isn’t Michael’s friend, not since he attacked Luke. Probably longer than, even. Maybe Louis was never really Michael’s friend. Maybe he only pretended like he was, because he knew Michael couldn’t hope for anything more.

It is a depressing train of thought, this whole ordeal with Louis, and Michael would rather not pursue it. He would rather not think about it, so he stands up from the table. He isn’t feeling much like eating anymore. Besides, he has his final lesson with Professor Slughorn in a few minutes. He should be heading down to the dungeons.

“I’ve got to meet with Slughorn,” says Michael, speaking to Luke and Ashton and Calum, because he doesn’t want to look at Louis or at Zayn. “I’ll see you all later.”

“Wait—don’t forget this,” says Luke, producing a tiny vial full of dark orange liquid from the pocket of his robes. “It’s a Wit-Sharpening Potion. Should be the last thing Slughorn asks of you. Sorry this one is such a mess. I didn’t stopper it properly, apparently.”

Luke hands the potion across the table to Michael. It drips all the way across, splattering onto the table and into the empty goblet next to Michael’s plate. Just as Michael goes to reach for it, Ashton grabs it instead. He pulls an old red and gold bandana from his pocket and uses it to sop up the mess on the bottle. Luke smiles sheepishly at Ashton, because Luke didn’t think of that himself. Ashton shakes his head fondly at Luke then hands the potion over to Michael.

“Sometimes, you are the most forgetful person I know, Luke,” says Ashton, but he is entirely too fond when he speaks, so his words lose the bite that they would have otherwise carried. Ashton doesn’t have it in him to be mean to Luke. He folds the damp bandana back up and stows it away in his pocket.

“You should wash that,” says Luke, and he sticks his tongue out at Ashton, his cheeks pink. His eyes dance with mirth, though, so he isn’t actually offended by Ashton’s statement. He turns to Michael. “And you should be leaving.”

Michael laughs, pocketing the potion. He slips Newt into his other pocket, where Newt is safe and sound in the nest that Michael has created for him. He really should be leaving—both because he doesn’t want to spend any more time around Louis and Zayn and because he need to get to potions. He thanks Luke for his help.

“I’ll come with you,” offers Calum, clambering over the bench and rushing to catch up with Michael. “I forgot my gloves in the dorm this morning, and I’m going to need them for practice.”

“Damn right you will!” Niall calls after them.

Calum laughs. He wraps his arm around Michael’s shoulder, drawing him nearer to him, as they walk through the doors leading out of the Great Hall. Michael leans into Calum, relishing in his closeness. They take their leisurely time to the steps leading down to dungeons and then, when they reach them, they descend at an even slower pace. It’s like Calum wants to prolong this as much as Michael does.

“I feel like we’ve hardly seen each other all week,” says Calum. “Between your lessons and my practices, I’ve—well, I’ve missed you.”

He admits it with a note of self-consciousness, like he feels a little foolish for missing Michael even though Michael has slept in his bed every night. The admission brings a smile to Michael’s face. It does funny things to his heart, warming it and making it pound like crazy in his chest. He loves Calum so much. It feels nice to be reminded that Calum loves him equally so.

“I’ve missed you, too,” Michael says, because it’s the truth. They’ve shared their nights together, yes, but they’ve both been so tired that they’ve practically fallen asleep every night the moment their heads hit the pillows. They share their meals, too, and the scarce free time they have had in common, but they are never alone then. Michael can’t complain too much, though, because he would never, ever trade time with Luke and Ashton. He has, nonetheless, been disappointed at how little time he and Calum have had with one another, especially after their Hogsmeade date. Michael hasn’t even had a chance to give Calum his gift yet.

Calum slows to a stop at the bottom of the stairs. This is their parting point. The Hufflepuff basement is up the next corridor, but the potions dungeon is another level down. Calum turns to face Michael, crowing into Michael’s space until their lips are nearly touching already. Michael grins anticipatorily. He thinks about ducking in for the kiss right now, but Calum speaks before he can.

“We should go on another date—tomorrow after the game. We should do something together, just you and me. I have a surprise for you.”

Michael thinks of the gift at the bottom of his trunk. “It’s a date. I have a surprise for you, too.”

Calum grins. His eyes sparkle with excitement at the idea of a surprise—or maybe with the anticipation of kissing Michael, because the words out of his mouth are, “Good. I’m going to kiss you now.”

He does.


	25. Chapter 25

The letter comes the next morning. Michael is seated at the Hufflepuff table in a sea of yellow and black. The entire Great Hall is buzzing with excitement. The Hufflepuff-Slytherin match is set to commence in just a little while now, and even Michael is in the spirit for a nice quidditch game. It is hard not to be. Calum is already in uniform. Luke and Ashton, seated across the table, are decked out in Hufflepuff colors, their cheeks painted, and Michael is wearing Calum’s old Hufflepuff jumper. The entire Hufflepuff table is abuzz with the news that Slytherin is having to play two of their reserves—they are down one of their regular beaters and one of their regular chasers, too—so Hufflepuff’s chances of winning are phenomenally better than had been expected.

In the midst of all of the excitement, however, a large black owl drops a simple white letter in Michael’s lap in one fell swoop. Michael’s stomach hits the floor. He knows that owl. He knows the wax seal on the letter even better.

It is from his parents.

The noise and excitement all around him fades into nearly nothing as far as Michael can perceive. The only thing he is aware of is how dauntingly heavy the thin letter feels in his trembling hands. He thinks of the last time he held such a letter. Of how the words _don’t come home_ are forever burned in his mind. Of how his heart still lurches in his chest every time he thinks about how his mother’s penmanship was just as perfect, just as steady as it curved around those words like they were not any more important than a simple shopping list.

Michael doesn’t know what he will find in this letter. He hasn’t been in contact with his parents since that awful letter. They didn’t want him home for Christmas, and they didn’t bother coming to the hospital wing whenever Michael spent an entire week asleep. He hasn’t even been expecting to receive any type of communication from them until June when Michael is to floo all by himself from Platform 9¾ to the cold, ancient manor he dutifully calls home.

Briefly, Michael considers never opening the letter, because if he doesn’t open it, then it can’t hurt him. But he is curious. He has always been curious. When he was a child, toddling around the expansive grounds upon which Clifford Manor was situated, Michael’s mother had specifically forbidden him from exploring too far away from the view of the house, because beyond the borders of their land were what Michael’s mother had termed to be _undesirables_.

Michael hadn’t listened, of course, too eager to escape out from underneath his mean, old caretaker’s nose. He had stumbled his way through a thicket of trees on the farthest edge of his family’s land. He liked it here. He couldn’t see the manor. More importantly, he couldn’t see Mr. Rowle, who was most certainly unhappy that Michael could neither name the entire roster of the Sacred Twenty-Eight  nor trace his own ancestry back to nearly half of them. Michael didn’t care about blood. No seven-year-old did.

On that particular day, when Michael braved the tiny sliver of forest on the outer edge of his entire world for the very first time, he was fueled by the kindred curiosity of exactly what an _undesirable_ was. But he hadn’t found that. All he had found had been a boy his age with a scabby knee and a big smile that lit up Michael’s entire world.

It was love at first sight.

But to a seven-year-old, such love was nothing more than a desire to be friends with this mysterious little boy who introduced himself as _Calum_ and then asked Michael if he would like to see something cool. Michael, as it turned out, was, indeed, interested in seeing something cool, and he told Calum as much. Right there before Michael’s very eyes, Calum turned a tiny daisy flower into tiny white and yellow butterfly.

It was amazing, the small act of underage magic. Michael had seen all kinds of magic, growing up as the only son of a prestigious pureblood family, but this was his absolute favorite one to witness. He grinned and told Calum that he was brilliant, and that was that—the beginning of a beautiful friendship.

Years later, when Michael’s beautiful friendship came to a tragic end when he was forced to utter the words, _“You want me to be fine? Do me a bloody favor and just stop talking to me,”_ he realized that his mother was wrong. The _undesirables_ weren’t the muggles who lived beyond their land but were rather Michael’s family. Nobody wanted to be somebody filled with hate and despair, and that was the only type of love Michael had ever known until he met Calum.

“What’s that?” asks Luke, innocently, knocking Michael out of his thoughts.

Michael jumps, startled, and glances wildly up at Luke. He starts to hide the letter underneath the table but realizes almost as soon as the idea crosses his mind that it would be fruitless. Luke already knows the letter exists. Besides, Michael shouldn’t be ashamed of an ornate piece of parchment. It looks innocent enough, he supposes. He could just lie to Luke, tell him it is nothing more than a letter from his family and leave it at that.

Except he can’t. Not only because it wouldn’t be nice to lie to a friend like Luke but because Michael can feel the heavy weight of Calum’s calculating gaze. Michael wants to curl in on himself. Calum must know this letter is from Michael’s parents. Calum has seen this fancy parchment many times over the years of their childhood on the occasions he and Michael would successfully evade Michael’s caretaker, Mr. Rowle, but not the magnificent black owl who delivered messages commanding Michael to _come home right now_ and would peck Michael until he obliged his parents’ wishes. Even if, for some bizarre reason, Calum doesn’t recognize the fancy parchment or the owl from his childhood memories, Calum has to recognize the distinctly pureblood script that had once spelled out the words _don’t come home_ only a few months ago.

“Maybe you shouldn’t open it,” says Calum, softly.

His eyes are so sincere when he speaks, confirming Michael’s suspicion that Calum knows exactly who the letter is from. Across the table from them, Luke and Ashton wince identically upon Calum’s statement, and Michael’s eyes snap to them. Calum must have told them about the letter all those months ago. On some level, Michael has always suspected that Calum might have, because there are no secrets between Calum  and Luke and Ashton. The obvious confirmation brings a bright blush to Michael’s cheeks. He drops his gaze to the table, unable to look either Luke or Ashton in the eyes.

“They only make you miserable, Mikey,” says Calum quietly. He glances down at the letter in Michael’s hand. “It’s all they’ve ever done, but they don’t have to this time. You don’t have to read what they have to say.”

Michael chews on his bottom lip. He knows Calum is right. He _does_ , but it doesn’t change the fact that Michael _wants_ to know what the letter holds. That Michael wants to know why his parents haven’t sent a single letter all term until now. That Michael wants to know what about the status quo has changed to have created this letter.

“But they’re my parents,” he says.

“Yeah, great parents they are,” snorts Calum. The tone of his voice is venomous in a manner that Michael hasn’t heard in years, and Michael glances up to meet Calum’s eyes. He sees a spark of the ten-year-old Calum who opened the door to find Michael a bloody mess on the other side. That had been the last time Calum had declared he and Michael would be friends forever, even if Michael was put into Slytherin. A year later, after Michael was sorted into his family’s house, the promise was broken.

“Cal—”

“Do they still hurt you?” asks Calum, cutting Michael off. “I know they used to. Do they still punish you with their wands?”

Michael flinches. He scoots away from Calum, desperate for space between himself and Calum’s accusatory glare. He shakes his head, not because the answer is no but because he can’t believe that they are having this conversation right here, right now in the middle of the Great Hall right before the Hufflepuff-Slytherin quidditch match with Michael clutching a letter from his parents. This isn’t something he wants to discuss. Not now. Not ever.

“Don’t lie to me,” says Calum.

It’s more of a plea than a command, but Michael can’t take it. Ashton and Luke are looking at Michael like they’ve never felt sorrier for anybody else in their entire lives, and Michael _hates_ pity. It is misplaced, and he doesn’t even deserve it. So Michael isn’t in good graces with his parents. At least they’re still alive, unlike Luke’s. Maybe Michael’s parents adhere to ancient pureblood punishments with magical whips that leave no lasting scars and bruising slaps that only linger in his skin for a few days. It isn’t any of Calum’s concern or of Luke’s and Ashton’s concerns. Michael has done well taking care of himself for the past five years.

So Michael jumps up from the table, eager to get away from the undeserved pitying looks his friends are sending him. He crumbles the letter in his hand. He hates it even before reading it, because it has caused this—it has made him uncomfortable around the three people that he should never, ever be anything less than contented with.

“Don’t pity me,” he snaps, because he hates the glint of it in all of their eyes. He shoves the letter into the pocket of his trousers.“Just because my parents don’t—don’t—it doesn’t matter. Stop pitying me.”

He stalks off, because, truthfully, his pride is hurt, and he doesn’t want to hear what Calum or Luke or Ashton might have to say, apologies or otherwise. None of them know the crushing weight of the last letter Michael received from his parents. Not even Calum, who had glimpsed the harsh words his mother had used, knows how isolating the Clifford Manor is. But at least at home, as compared to the loneliness of the Slytherin dungeon, Michael doesn’t have to think about not having any friends, because there is nobody there to remind him about it. All he has to do is appease his parents, attend a stuffy dinner or two, and then spend the rest of the time holed up in his bedroom where his constant state of loneliness is less so among the hundreds of books he has asked the family’s house elves to secure for him.

Things are different now that he has friends, Michael knows. It’s unfair to shut Calum and Luke and Ashton out, but there are skeletons in Michael’s closet that he doesn’t want to dig out just yet. Their friendships have been enough for him thus far. He doesn’t want to tell them anything that might scare them off, and talking about life under the roof of the Clifford Manor is anything except pleasant.

Michael makes it all the way out of the Great Hall before he loses steam and slows to a stop. He sighs, glancing over his shoulder at the double doors. He feels immensely guilty for snapping at Calum when Calum had only had Michael’s well-being in mind. Calum deserves to be treated better than how Michael just has treated him. Michael should go back and apologize now for being so unkind.

Somehow, the words _I’m sorry_ don’t seem to be enough. Michael thinks of the present hidden away in his things in the Hufflepuff dorm, and he thinks that might be the greatest way to stage an apology. It would make Calum smile, at the very least. Calum certainly wasn’t smiling when Michael stormed off. Michael needs to fix that. 

So Michael sets off for the Hufflepuff basement. He needs to hurry, because the match is set to begin soon, and Michael really wants Calum to be able to use his present during the game. Michael takes the stairs two at a time. The corridors are nearly empty since everybody is either in the Great Hall or have already made their ways to the quidditch pitch.

Michael makes it to the Hufflepuff basement in record time. The thing is right where he left it, underneath a week’s worth of his own clean laundry. It is a small thing, small enough to fit into his pocket without any fuss, so he puts it in the one where Newt normally calls home, and he pulls Newt out instead. Holding Newt in the palm of his hand, he brings Newt up to eye level.

“I’m going to leave you here, Newt,” Michael tells Newt, who noses down into Michael’s palm. “I don’t want you to get squished, and you know how excited Luke gets about things, especially whenever Cal scores a goal. I don’t want you to get hurt in all of the excitement,  and it’ll only be for a few hours anyhow.”

Newt blinks at Michael, and Michael has to laugh at himself for trying to reason with a hedgehog. Newt probably doesn’t care if he goes to the quidditch match or not as long as he gets to sleep uninterrupted in a comfortable spot. Michael carries Newt over to the shelf carved into wall where Luke had worked diligently, while Michael was in the hospital wing, to create a safe space for Newt. The edges are charmed to keep Newt from wandering away, and there is a nice nest of shrunken jumpers in the back corner that Newt likes to curl up in. Michael places him down there, petting down Newt’s back as a goodbye. Newt, happy and content, unleashes his quills. The tiny magicked jumper, colored yellow and black for the big match, protects Michael’s fingers from getting prickled. Michael counts it as a farewell.

Leaving the dorm, Michael feels oddly empty without Newt’s presence in his pocket. It is smarter to leave Newt behind, Michael knows, because there will be so much noise at the match, and Newt won’t be happy with his nap being disturbed. Still, though, with every step Michael takes away from Hufflepuff basement, Michael wants to turn back more and more. He starts to wonder if maybe Calum and Luke and Ashton are unhappy with him being so rude earlier. They have every right to be angry with him, he knows, but he would feel so much braver facing them if he had Newt with him. At least then if Calum and Luke and Ashton told Michael to go away—that they couldn’t be friends with somebody as mean as him—he wouldn’t be alone. He would have Newt.

Just as Michael is considering turning back around and taking Newt with him instead, he turns a corner and runs straight into a solid, warm body. Michael grunts in surprise, stumbling backward. A pair of hands reach out and steady him, and he readies an apology on his lips that dies the exact second he looks up. His stomach hits the floor.

It is Louis.

“I’m so glad I ran into you,” says Louis, breathless, before Michael can utter a single word. Louis looks half-crazed. His hair is a mess on top of his head. He is wearing an old, well-worn Slytherin jumper, and his trainers are untied on his feet. Michael has never, ever seen Louis look so disheveled. “Listen, don’t go to the game.”

Michael blinks in confusion. “Shouldn’t you be dressed for the match already? What are you doing down here?”

“Looking for you,” says Louis. Michael doesn’t miss the fact that Louis has completely ignored his first question, but Louis doesn’t give Michael a chance to call him on it. “There isn’t much time, but you should go back to the Hufflepuff dorm—no, that’s probably too easy. Go up to the Gryffindor Tower. The password is ‘Barnabas the Barmy.’ Stay in Ashton’s dorm. You know where it’s at, right?”

Michael steps back from Louis, shrugging out of Louis’s hold. Louis looks possessed. The blue of his eyes is the tiniest bit cloudy. Michael doesn’t understand what Louis is saying. Michael licks his lips, a wave of anxiety washing over him. He shoves his hand into the pocket of his robes and wraps it around the handle of his wand just in case.

Something isn’t right.

“What are you talking about?”

“I can’t explain,” says Louis in a rush. “Just—just trust me.”

“Trust you?” Michael repeats with an unkind snort. “Oh, yeah, let’s see where that got me last time. You promised me friendship and then stabbed me in the back. You attack _Luke_ , Louis! How do you expect me to just trust you when you haven’t given me a reason to think that this isn’t just another one of your ploys?”

“It’s not, I swear. You’ve got to trust me.”

But Michael is done blindly trusting people. It only gets him hurt. He has had enough hurt to last a lifetime.

“No, I don’t,” says Michael, “because you’re friends with Finn and Archer, and I don’t trust them, so I can’t trust you.”

Louis recoils as if Michael had struck him. His expression darkens, and he reaches for his wand, but Michael is quicker. Michael bellows out the first spell he can think of. It is nothing more than a simple disarming charm, because he doesn’t want to _hurt_ Louis. He just doesn’t want Louis to hurt him. The spell sends Louis’s wand flying through the air. It clatters to the ground halfway up the corridor.

Michael sighs. He thinks that, maybe, he should feel disappointed. He doesn’t. Truthfully, he isn’t all that surprised that Louis has turned his wand on him. He glances at Louis’s wand halfway down the corridor then up at the wizard himself.

“I can’t trust you,” he repeats, because that’s the truth, apparently. It makes Michael feel unfathomably sad, how somebody as kind as Louis once was to him can be so heartless to him now. “The unfortunate part is that you don’t know how much I wish I could.”

There is nothing left here for Michael, even though he is sure that Louis has something he would like to say in response. Michael doesn’t want to hear it. He doesn’t need to tarry in the basements any longer. He is already running late for the match, and he would like to catch Calum before the game starts. He needs to apologize for being so rude earlier when Calum only wanted Michael to be safe all of the time. He wants to give Calum his gift and kiss Calum good luck before the big game. He can’t do that if he wastes any more time on Louis.

So he turns his back on the wizard who was once his friend. He heads for the stairs. When he reaches them, he takes them two at a time, eager to get to the quidditch pitch. He doesn’t bother looking back at Louis. There is nothing left for him there anyway. He is two steps away from the top when it happens.

“ _Imperio_.”

The most fantastic feeling in the world overcomes Michael. He hesitates in his gait, suddenly unaware of why it is so important to head to the quidditch pitch. Maybe he should heed Louis’s warning instead. Louis had seemed rather impassioned to convince Michael that he should hide out in the Gryffindor common room. Maybe it wouldn’t be a bad idea to catch the game from the windows in the tower. Surely, he could see just as well from there.

Michael continues on his mission. When he reaches the ground floor, he heads up the stairs instead of toward the ornate double doors leading outside. It feels like he floats more than he walks all the way up to the seventh floor. He can hardly recall the path he takes, trusting himself to remember the winding route up to Gryffindor tower. He has been there before. He can certainly get himself back there now.

When he steps off the last flight of stairs, he knows he is where he is meant to be. He continues on down one corridor then up the next until he strolls past a familiar tapestry of some old wizard and a handful of trolls. The magic of Hogwarts changes then, becoming less tight-knit and more porous. If Michael wanted to, he could draw hundreds of voids to him at once in this fragile part of Hogwarts—in the _fractured_ magic that has yet to heal even years after the Final Battle destroyed this part of the castle and claimed so many brave lives.

Michael slows to a stop in the middle of the corridor. The fractured magic is loose around him. He doesn’t want to draw a void to him. He feels fine. A little floaty, admittedly, but fine. There is nothing he needs to run away from. He is fine here.

A figure steps out from the shadows of a nearby alcove. The green of his Slytherin tie seems to shine out from the darkness. The wizard offers Michael a patient, twisted smile. Michael feels compelled to offer him one back.

“Hello, Michael. It is nice of you to finally join us here. This will only take a few minutes to fix.”


	26. Chapter 26

Michael curls his fingers around the handle of his wand, withdrawing it from the pocket of his robes. He holds it out from him and lets it fall to the ground. He doesn’t need it, so he kicks it away from him. Surely, everything is much better with his wand all the way over there. He runs his tongue along his bottom lip and slowly raises his gaze to the wizard before him.

Lethargically, Michael notes that the wizard is not alone. He does feel so surprised at the turn of the events, but this in itself is not novel. Michael hasn’t felt anything other than… _floaty_ since he stormed off from Louis just a few minutes ago. He likes this feeling a lot. It is nice. He is safe, and he never wants to feel anything else.

“That was the problem last time, wasn’t it?” asks Finn, speaking again after a beat of silence. He glances down at Michael’s wand that is lying on the floor then looks back up at Michael. His twisted smile seems to bleed into his words. “You were armed, but this time, I won’t make the same mistake.”

Michael blinks. He licks his lips again, but he has nothing to say. He doesn’t want his wand back. He doesn’t need it, because he is fine without it. Next to Finn, Archer’s wand is trained on Michael, but Michael isn’t worried about that, either. He has no reason to be concerned. He feels _floaty_ , and there isn’t much room to feel anything else.

Yet, as addictive as the floaty feeling is, something tugs in back of Michael’s mind. It tries to break through the thick film that has blanketed Michael’s thoughts. It is an unsettling sort of sensation, like a pin prick in sensitive skin. Michael kind of wants to feed into it, but the floaty feeling that has engaged him thus far makes him want to push away the tiny pin prick of unease.

In reality, Michael has nothing to be uneasy about. He is fine. He is safe. He thinks as much even as he watches the smirk on Finn’s lips dissipate into nothingness. Finn’s expression grows sober. Cold. Calculating. Deadly. The floaty feeling encompassing Michael’s body like a bubble in his chest shrinks ever-so-slightly in size as the pin prick presses even deeper into Michael’s hazy mind.  

He feels a little less safe, but he still doesn’t dive for his wand. He doesn’t need it. He just needs to stand still and not move as Finn points his own wand straight at Michael’s chest. Michael averts his gaze to it, staring almost cross-eyed at its tip. Somewhere in the trappings of his foggy thoughts, a tiny voice screams at him to dive for his own wand—that things aren’t as fine as he believes them to be—but it is all too easy to ignore that voice when the most amazing floaty feeling is still cloaking Michael’s body.

Finn opens his mouth, a spell ready on the tip of his tongue, but—

“ _Expelliarmus_!”

“ _Protego_!”

The two spells clash midair, and a burst of scarlet light explodes off Archer’s last second invisible shield. Finn falls backward, stumbling away from the epicenter of the crash. His wand falls from his slackened hand and clatters to the floor. He staggers back into the stone wall behind him. It is mismatched from the surrounding area like all reconstructed parts of the castle are—new transposed against old—and the scars that were left when the original wall had exploded into hundreds of pieces, claiming a brave life in the fight against Lord Voldemort, still litter the ground in front of it.

Michael squints his eyes against the flash of brightness. His mind is still hazy. He is still overcome by the nice _floaty_ feeling that has settled deep into his bones, but it is easy enough to ignore the loud command in his mind to _stay still_. He turns his head toward the location of the first spell. In the fading light, Ashton and Luke stand shoulder-to-shoulder, wands raised, at the end of the corridor.

“Leave him alone,” demands Ashton. Sweat rolls down his flush face, distorting the black and yellow face paint on his cheeks until the colors bleed together. Around his wrist is an old red and gold bandana, tied loosely and hastily. “You’ve been mean to Michael for too long. It stops now.”

Finn pushes off the wall behind him and straightens back up. He holds his hand above his wand, calling it back to him. It flies straight up into his grasp. Finn raises it toward Luke and Ashton in the next moment. He smirks devilishly at Ashton.

“But we’re not being mean, are we, Michael?”

Archer’s wand turns again on Michael, and Michael thinks, _No, they’re not_ , so he shakes his head. It is true, probably. They haven’t been mean to him. Finn has only said that they were waiting on him and that they weren’t going to make this same mistake this time as they did the last time. There is nothing mean about either of those things. Everything is fine. Michael doesn’t even need his wand right now.

“What have you done to him?” demands Ashton, taking a step forward to place himself in front of Luke.

It is an offensive, threatening move. Finn flicks his wand at Ashton and Luke. Their wands go flying through the air, leaving them defenseless. Ashton shoves Luke behind him a little more. Danger glints in Finn’s eyes. It is something that Michael’s fuzzy mind registers, even if Michael himself does not feel the same type of fear that has given Ashton the urge to act as a personal shield for Luke. Michael figures it is just Ashton being his usual self. It is just Ashton refusing to allow Luke to be hurt. It is the only explanation, because Michael himself doesn’t need his wand. _Everything is fine._

“The real question here is, ‘What has _Michael_ done?’” retorts Finn, almost lazily.

The smile that forms on his lips in the succeeding pause is deadly. Finn’s gaze flashes to Michael then to Archer. A tiny voice in the back of Michael’s mind is screaming— _nothing is fine!_ —but Archer adjusts his grip on his wand, and a sense of calmness washes over Michael yet again. Michael ignores the tiny voice, silences it underneath the hatred that begins to burn in his mind, and he turns, almost robotically, to face Ashton and Luke full-on for the first time.

“What are you doing here?” asks Michael. The question falls thoughtlessly from his lips. His voice sounds too airy even to his own ears, as if it has been stretched too thin like the old, threadbare blanket Michael used to curl up in when he sat all alone in front of the fire at his family’s manor every Christmas Eve. He licks across his bottom lip and clears his throat, trying again. “You don’t even like me.”

Ashton’s face falls instantly. Michael thinks of when Calum had been cursed and he had watched Calum freefall hundreds of meters above the ground at the quidditch match. It is sort of the same here. Michael’s heart plummets to the ground just as quickly as it did back then. The biggest difference is, this time, Michael doesn’t reach for his wand. He lets Ashton figuratively fall.

“You’re our best friend, Mikey,” says Ashton.

It is almost a plea, and it should break Michael—it is _designed_ to break Michael. The hatred burning in his mind grows a little brighter. He snorts, loud and echoingly, in response. Ashton frowns, hurt.

“You don’t give a damn about me,” says Michael. He doesn’t know where these words are coming from, but they’re easy to let fall from his lips, so he feeds into it. He lets his tongue run wild. “Why don’t you put your mouth to a good use and suck face with your _boyfriend_?”

The color drains from Ashton’s face. He stumbles back, stopping half of a step in front of Luke.  His hand goes for Luke’s behind him, and Luke meets him halfway. Ashton’s eyes get real big, and he tucks his bottom lip underneath his teeth, biting down hard. Somewhere in the back of Michael’s foggy mind, there is a muffled voice screaming at him to _shut up_ and to _apologize for being so mean to Ashton_ , but it is all too easy for Michael to ignore that voice.

Ashton turns to Finn and Archer instead, demanding, “Leave him alone!”

It is a pitiful demand, marked worse by the fact that Ashton is unarmed against the powerful duo that is Finn and Archer. Ashton does not seem to mind the power difference. He is fearless. When Finn raises his wand, Ashton does the only thing he can: he charges forward. Finn gets off a spell, but it is a mere stinging jinx. It strikes Ashton square in the face, right across his left cheek. His face turns red and swells almost instantly, making it nearly impossible for him to see out of his left eye, but it does not stop Ashton.

He slams against Finn, knocking Finn’s wand clear out of his hand and pinning Finn to the wall with his own strength. It is easy to forget at times that Ashton is muggleborn—that Ashton grew up with only his fists to protect him against the bullies on the playground at his muggle primary school. Ashton is so magical with everything he does. He charms muggle music players to work at Hogwarts even though for years such a thing was believed to be impossible. He can brew potions perfectly every single time, and he can see Thestrals when nobody else in the entire class can. He believes the best in magic. He believes it won’t break and that it can fix everything wrong in the entire universe.

So it is hard to remember, sometimes, that Ashton knows what it is like to not rely on magic, but right here, with Ashton pinning Finn to the rebuilt stone wall, there is nothing more obvious in the whole world. Ashton jams his left arm underneath Finn’s neck, cutting off Finn’s air supply. He uses his free hand to rain down a series of punches from a well-practiced fist, striking at wherever he can reach to make Finn _hurt_. Finn claws at Ashton’s arm, struggling for breath. Ashton doesn’t let up.

Until he is forced to.

Archer flicks his wand toward Ashton. It is a quick movement, barely long enough for his wand to land on Ashton before it is pointed at Michael once more. The silent spell throws Ashton back away from Finn, who, now free to breathe of his accord, slouches to catch his breath. The spell throws Ashton all the way across the corridor and slams him into the opposing wall with enough force to elicit a groan of pain. Ashton’s head slams against the stones behind him in the next fraction of a second. A nasty crack echoes through the corridor. Ashton’s eyes flutter close. He crumbles to the floor, and he doesn’t move.

Luke lets out a pained wail that is probably meant to be Ashton’s name. He doesn’t make a move toward Ashton, turning instead to face Michael as if this is all of Michael’s fault. Luke’s eyes are so blue and so wide and so horrified that Michael’s heart skips a beat in his chest even though that should be impossible given how _floaty_ Michael feels.

“You’re our best friend, Michael!” Luke bellows, though, maybe, it is more of a screech. “This isn’t you!”

Michael laughs. It is a cold, almost emotionless sound. It grates across Michael’s own ears, and Luke flinches. Michael glances toward the heap on the floor that is Ashton. He feels nothing—a little floaty, but nothing that one should feel for somebody who claims to be his best friend.

He turns back to Luke. He doesn’t feel anything more for Luke, either. His mind is still fuzzy, but the words come easy to him again. He doesn’t fight them, even though the hurt look that had formed on Ashton’s face should be enough to quell Michael’s tongue. It isn’t, so Michael barrels forward, and allows the words to fall unhindered from his lips.

“It isn’t me?” he repeats, the viciousness dripping from his voice.  “No, you’re probably right. I’m more likely to hang a banner in the fucking Great Hall, aren’t I? You know, I never got the chance to tell you how _stunning_ you looked displayed for all of Hogwarts to see the filth that you are.”

Luke’s face pales just Ashton’s had a few moments ago when Michael’s words had so callously sliced across him, too.  

“Shut up, Michael,” Luke repeats, his voice wobbly. “Just shut up.”

But Michael can’t. Luke was mean to him once upon a time, and Michael has not been anything but nice to Luke, so it is high time that Luke feels exactly how he made Michael feel for four and a half years. It is only fair—except a tiny voice in the back of Michael’s mind that is fighting to be louder is screaming at him to just _listen to Luke and to shut up_ , that Luke doesn’t deserve the cruel words falling from Michael’s tongue.

It is all too easy, though, to block out that voice and focus instead on the thoughtless urge to tear Luke down.

“Why should I? I am only speaking the truth—something you’re too afraid of. You think a damn color-changing potion is enough of a peace offering when you were the one who cursed me to begin with?”

“You—you said you forgave me,” says Luke, small and vulnerable.

Michael should stop now, but he can’t.

“You’re pathetic. How could I truly forgive you? You say I’m the dirty Slytherin, but I am nothing compared to how horrible of a person you are.”

Luke crumbles before him, his hands curling into fists at his sides. The hint of gold and red in his left hand distracts Michael. Vaguely, through the haze of fuzz in his mind, Michael’s heart lurches in his chest as he realizes how desperately Luke is clinging to the piece of fabric. Luke can’t run to Ashton right now, not with Archer’s wand pointed at Michael and with Finn starting to regain his senses and reach for his own, but Luke can hold on to the bandana as a comforting reminder of Ashton.

It is Luke’s defeat right before Michael, and Michael should be satisfied with this victory. He isn’t. He can’t stop himself. He wants to diminish Luke to absolutely nothing, because that is what Luke deserves.

“You know what? I’m proud of what my parents did in the war. They brought glory to the wizarding world by ridding it of muggleborn scum and other undesireables. They certainly did your own parents a favor, didn’t they? Saved them the trouble of raising somebody so pathetic as you,” says Michael, cruelly. Fire burns in his chest. His tongue slashes like a sword to make Luke bleed before him. “They would be ashamed to have a son like you.”

It is the final blow. Somewhere in the back of Michael’s mind is that voice screaming at him to shut up. To apologize. To turn on the wand pointed at him and unleash his fury there instead of at Luke, who doesn’t deserve the cruel, untrue words that Michael has thrown at him. But Michael doesn’t have time to bow down to that voice.

Luke lunges at him, slamming bodily into him and knocking them both down. Michael is not much of a fighter—he has always preferred flight to fight—but the coil of anger in his chest forces him to fight back. He throws up a punch at Luke, but Luke’s right hook catches him across the jaw. His face bashes against the cold, unforgiving floor.

Stars dance in Michael’s vision. The floaty feeling inside of him lessens ever so slightly, like air slowly seeping through a hole in a balloon. Pain radiates across the entire right side of Michael’s face. His breaths come in pants. Desire strikes him like a magical whip to fight back, but Michael can’t. Luke is too strong. Too angry. Too desperate.

Luke curls his hand across Michael’s nose and mouth, pressing the bandana flat against Michael’s skin. Michael can hardly breath. When he does, the acidic smell of the bandana reminds him of the potions dungeon and of never, ever managing to achieve any form of success. The floaty feeling starts to vanish, leaving in its place nothing except pure, unadulterated horror.

Michael spies a wand lying on the floor. He just needs to get to it. Luke is a heavy weight on top of him, still pressing the bandana flat against the bottom half of Michael’s face. The acidic burn of the potion seeps into Michael’s lungs. He longs for a breath of fresh air. His chest feels tight, like somebody has tied a thousand knots inside of it and the acidic burn is unraveling each one at an inhumane, dangerous speed. Michael no longer feels floaty. He feels empty, and somewhere in the back of his mind, a dying voice screams at him to _fight back, dammit!_

Luke lets up his hold on Michael, his earlier bout of adrenaline wearing off as exhaustion begins to settle in its stead. Michael takes advantage of Luke’s weakness. He throws Luke off him. Luke tumbles to the stony ground away Michael, hitting it with enough force to knock the breath right out of his lungs. The bandana falls from his slackened grasp. It is blood red and brazen gold against cold stone.

Michael gasps for his own breath. Clean, fresh air fills his lungs, but the acidic burn there does not go away. It feels as though it is intensifying. When Michael takes his second gasping breath, the burn spreads across his chest like a drop of paint dispelling in a cup of plain water. It grips at his heart, pulsates with its beat, and the dying voice in his head is silenced.

He lunges for the wand. He needs it—to do _what_ with it, he does not know, but he knows that he needs to hold it his possession once more. He curls his fingers around the familiar handle, reveling for a brief second in the surge of magic that dances to his fingertips. He rolls over onto his back then clambers to his feet.

The wand dangles innocently from his hand. He looks down at the pathetic form of Luke, still struggling for breath on the floor in front of him. Luke’s eyes dart to the tip of the wand then up to meet Michael’s gaze. Fear shines back at Michael, but underneath it is satisfaction. Michael feels like he has been played. He feels like he is the butt of yet another one of Luke’s jokes. Luke could not tell Michael the horrible truth about their respective parents until it was good for him to play the pity card. Here again, Michael can’t help but to feel like Luke knows something more than Michael does.

Luke always seems to know more than Michael does, and Michael hates it.

Michael raises his wand, points it at Luke, and hesitates. A hundred curses fly through his mind. Some of which he has personally felt the harsh lash. Others, he has only read in obscure books such as _Advanced Spells: What you don’t Learn in School_. Even a couple of spells that have been passed down through the generations of the ancient Clifford family flit through his mind. He can’t decide which one he would rather use to tear Luke apart.

“ _Stupefy_!” bellows a familiar voice.

Michael jumps, startled, as the new spell breaks through the air and slams into Archer, who, now stunned, goes rigid. He collapses to the floor, his wand thrown a dozen meters down the corridor. Michael is careless of Archer. Distracted from Luke, he turns to face the newcomer who had literally appeared out of nowhere.

Calum is still dressed in his quidditch robes, his brand new chaser gloves encased around his hands. His wand is pointed toward Archer and Finn, but his eyes meet Michael’s. A crazed glint of desperation shines in Calum’s eyes. It is the same glint that Luke had possessed only moment beforehand. It had been unsettling then, but, now, Michael feels like he has been doused with a bucket of icy cold water.

Michael’s jaw drops of its own accord. His chest fills with horror and regret. He nearly drowns in it as the realization of exactly what he has done to his _friends_ begins to settle in. He glances at Ashton, who is still unconscious next to the alcove behind Calum. He then looks down at the trembling form of Luke, who is grinning madly at Calum like he has never before been so glad to see somebody. Finally, Michael turns his attention back to Calum.

His entire body goes cold all over.

Finn has regained his senses. His wand is pointed straight at Calum’s heart—at the very spot where curses hurt the most—and Michael knows the spell that is going to fall from Finn’s lips before Finn even opens his mouth. History is repeating itself. Nearly a year ago, Finn had turned the same curse on Michael himself and Michael’s entire world had exploded.

Now, it is Calum who is in danger. Michael does not think twice. He steps in front of Luke and prays that Hogwarts will protect Ashton and Calum, because he can’t. He flicks his wand toward Finn, and bellows the very final spell from the book Louis and Zayn had gotten him for Christmas—the one that Michael had stumbled across that day in the library right before he and Calum had gone on their date to Hogsmeade. Silver light erupts from the end of Michael’s wand before he has even finished the incantation.

The magic of Hogwarts fractures, and everything bursts into white.


	27. Chapter 27

The magic of Hogwarts is beautiful but scarred. An aura of raw power is spread thin across the gaps in the blinding whiteness. Time hangs suspended around them, courtesy of Michael’s ancient spell. It is hard to breathe here in the space between worlds—in the space between the physical and the magical. It reminds Michael of how the voids feel.

Hogwarts is fractured. This isn’t anything new. It has been since shortly after Michael was born when the Battle of Hogwarts rampaged this ground some fifteen years ago. Hogwarts had given its all to protect its students and to protect those who fought for it, but, in the end, this hadn’t been enough. Hundreds of wizards and witches lost their lives despite Hogwarts’ best efforts. Even Hogwarts itself had taken the life of one right here in this very spot when one of its walls exploded into rubble. That is when the magic of Hogwarts was splintered. Fractured. Broken.

Over the passing years, Hogwarts had slowly began to stitch itself back together. It took the magic that was poured into it by the thousands of students that have since graced its halls. It borrowed what it could from the pupils but always, _always_ took only the bad and gave back tenfold good. Last year, when Michael’s world had exploded right here, Hogwarts had taken the bad magic that had been so, so mean to Michael and consumed it all itself.

Finn had been left nearly powerless—and desperate to get his magic back.

Michael now understands what had happened. Hogwarts has always had Michael’s back, ever since he was a new student learning to travel the voids for the first time and inadvertently strengthening Hogwarts by leaps and bounds every time he tore open its thin magic. Michael had let in brand new magic, and this magic was unadulterated. It was pure. It healed Hogwarts every single time, and so Hogwarts gave back to Michael ten times as much as Michael gave to Hogwarts. When Michael was faced with the end—when he was faced with a misunderstood spell from an unpracticed hand that would destroy his magical core and leave him nothing except a shell of a human being—Hogwarts had whisked Michael away to safety and absorbed the magic for itself and had kept it all.

What Michael doesn’t understand, even to this day, is why Finn had seen the need to practice an unknown spell he had found in a secondhand potions book on Michael. It is true that Finn has never been nice to Michael. He has never liked Michael, not even that very first night when they sat across from one another at the Slytherin table as newly sorted first years. Finn’s family never rose to the prominence that the Clifford name held. Finn’s family didn’t escape the war unscathed. His parents were locked up in Azkaban prison, and his family’s name was dragged through mud.

The animosity—the _jealousy_ —that Finn feels for Michael is understandable, except that Michael has never given a damn about his family’s legacy. As far as Michael is concerned, Finn can have all of the things that the Clifford name gives to Michael—the good and, most especially, the bad.

Maybe that was why Finn had done it. Maybe it was nothing more than childhood jealousy brimming over the top of what Finn could handle. Maybe Finn thought, at the end of the day, it was him or Michael, so Michael had to go. Maybe it was as simple as that.

Michael doesn’t know the reason. He isn’t sure he cares too much, not when it nearly killed him. Not when it drove him to hurting his friends. All Michael wants is for everything to be okay again—is for Finn to get his magic back like he wants and for Ashton to open his eyes right now. Michael may know how to help Finn, but he doesn’t have a single clue of how to help Ashton. The best Michael can do is hope that the thick veil of silvery magic that cloaks Ashton is enough to keep him safe and alive until Hogwarts can be put back together.

The magic surrounding them all is crystal white, but there are other colors swirled in—other magics that have been given for the strengthening of Hogwarts. Michael recognizes his own. It is a familiar blush of rainbow colored magic stained into the white background. It looks a whole lot like the potion that Luke had unintentionally fed to him a week ago. It swirls around him, envelops him like an old, well-worn robe. It keeps him safe. It is the magic that roots him to Hogwarts.

There are other magics here, too. Luke’s is a rich, Ravenclaw blue that matches the color of Michael’s hair. It is rigid and strong, reminding Michael of an old shield that the knights carried in the muggle fairytales Calum’s mum would read when Calum and Michael were kids. It hovers over Luke, sticking close to him like all magics do to their owners, but a thin string of blue magic swirls across the ground until it wraps around the silvery magic domed above Ashton to act as another, albeit thin, layer of protection. If Michael had any doubts that Luke was completely, one hundred percent gone for Ashton, he couldn’t have had them anymore. The magic doesn’t lie.

Calum’s magic is impressive. It is beautiful. It is a bright yellow color tainted around the edges by a light green. It swirls around him, pushing away the crystal white magic to the bounds of the fractures. Calum stands tall in the middle of it like a survivor among the rubble of fractured magic. His wand dangles uselessly from his fingers.

All of the different magics start to gather in the center, right where the fractures all start. The magics swirl away from their owners to gather into a cyclone there—blue from Luke and yellow from Calum and a variety of other colors. They all blend together in the cyclone and, slowly, ever-so-slowly, Hogwarts begins to sew itself back together, like the cyclone is a needle and the magics compose its thread.

It isn’t enough.

Michael knows this. He can feel it in his bones. This magic is good, and Hogwarts isn’t actually stealing it, because wizards are magical beings with more power than they can use at once. Wizards don’t even realize how much magic they exude by merely _breathing_ , so Hogwarts isn’t taking anything that  anybody needs. It is only taking what nobody can use.

But Hogwarts is too broken—too _fractured_ —to sustain itself on this excess magic alone.

The cyclone is desperate for more magic to fill the fractures. Michael knows what he has to do. He is the one who destroyed the thin fabric of Hogwarts. He is the one who should fix it. All Finn wanted was his magic back, and all Archer wanted was his friend to be healed, and Michael can give that to them. He can. He fix things in ways that neither of them imagined.

Mostly, he can fix Hogwarts. That is why he steps forward into the fractures. His magic follows him, the thin rainbow colored protection, but it is stretched thin already. It isn’t safe to venture too far into the fractured magic, but Hogwarts has done so, so much for him. It has opened itself up to him for safety. It has allowed him to travel through its magic, and it has protected him when people wanted to hurt him. Now, Michael should return the favor. He should give back what he has taken.

“Michael, what are you doing?” demands Calum, voice thick with fear. His tone suggests he knows exactly what Michael is planning to do. Across the cyclone, Calum’s face is distorted, but Michael thinks Calum might be wide-eyed staring at him. “Please, don’t do what I think you’re doing.”

“I have to,” says Michael. “Hogwarts needs to be whole again.”

He stops right before the cyclone, directing all of his magic to the tips of his fingers. All he has to do is reach out and offer it up. It is that simple. Then Finn can have his magic back—Hogwarts won’t need it anymore if Hogwarts has Michael’s—and everything will be right in the world again.

When he reaches out to touch the cyclone, it dances out of his grasp, like Hogwarts itself would never dream of taking more from Michael than Michael has to give. Michael tries to coax it near to him, tries to draw the magic of Hogwarts to him like he would a void, but Hogwarts doesn’t come. For the first time since Michael graced its halls, Hogwarts flees from him.

“No,” murmurs Michael, desperately.

He can see Finn’s magic—the dark hue of the iron gray swirled against the crystal white of Hogwarts’ neutralized magic. It is right there on the edge of one of the fractures. All it would take is a tiny nudge of magic to push it back to Finn for the taking.

“Take mine, and give his back,” says Michael, louder this time. He is nearly screaming at Hogwarts. All he wants is for everything to be okay—is for Luke to forgive him after this and for Ashton to wake up and for Calum to never, ever have to rush in and save him again and risk his own life in the process. “Just take it!”

“Mikey, stop!” calls Calum.

His voice sounds far away across the fractures of Hogwarts’ magic. He fights against the boundaries of one of the fractures as he dares to cross into the void of nothing in an attempt to get to Michael. To stop Michael. But Hogwarts is resilient. It keeps Calum safe in the bubble of yellow magic surrounding him.  Perhaps Hogwarts knows how much Calum means to Michael and is as unwilling to let Calum sacrifice himself as it is unwilling to allow Michael to do so.

“It isn’t going to take it from you, Mikey,” says Luke from the floor where his magic has him safely pinned down. He doesn’t try to fight the bubble of magic to stand up. Maybe Hogwarts isn’t letting him move, either. “It’s trying to keep you safe. That’s what Hogwarts always does.”

Michael knows that. He does, but he wishes that Hogwarts wouldn’t just this once so that he could fix things. He opens his mouth to say as much—both to Luke and to Hogwarts itself—but a bright flash of red magic enters the folds of the fractures. It is powerful enough to force Michael to stumble away from the cyclone. He spins on his heel in the direction from which the magic had come.

There, standing on the edges of the fractured magic where Hogwarts transitions from a regular corridor to a plane of pure, undiluted power, is Professor McGonagall with her wand raised and a thick jet of red light erupting from the end of it. The red light shoots across the crystal white space, slamming into the cyclone, and the cyclone eats it up like a starving man.

It isn’t enough, either. The frown on Professor McGonagall’s face suggests she knows that. Yet, she doesn’t let up on her spell, determined as she is to do her duty as Headmistress of this school—to protect the students and Hogwarts both from the unnamable horror that thrives in the fractures, left over from the Battle that tore Hogwarts open.

Behind Professor McGonagall, Louis and Zayn stand shoulder-to-shoulder. They step up even with her once the spell takes hold in the cyclone, and Michael’s heart lurches in his chest. Something is wrong with the picture they present. Their figures are distorted as if Michael is looking at them through a thick cloud of dark smoke.

It takes Michael a beat longer than it should to understand exactly what he is seeing. When he does, he sucks in a gasping breath. His heart shatters in his chest. Cold realization trickles down his body. He has never, ever felt such sorrow strike him as instantly as it does right now. He owes Louis and Zayn both a world of apologies, and he isn’t sure that would even be enough.

The magic that courses through Louis and Zayn—the magic that appears like a thick cloud of dark smoke—is the same that had, moments ago, consumed Michael. The Imperius Curse is a mighty spell that can control its victims for an extended period of time. It can make its victims do things they would never in a million years even consider doing. Michael remembers the spell that had been cast on Luke that day the banner hung in the Great Hall, and he remembers feeling the effects of that very same curse only moments ago, and, now, he is seeing it as pure, undiluted magic shrouded over Louis and Zayn. He would wager every galleon in his family’s impressive Gringott’s vault that this particular use of the Imperius Curse is a couple of weeks old—that is has been in effect since the day Michael drank a potion he wasn’t supposed to and, afterward, Luke confided in Michael that Louis and Zayn were in cohorts with Finn and Archer.

Suddenly, Michael understands.

Louis and Zayn are his friends. They have been this entire time, despite Michael’s unkind distrust of them. They were only looking out for him, just like they said, but they had gotten cursed for their troubles. They had been reduced to nothing more than mere pawns, ready and willing to bide by their master’s command. Michael isn’t sure who the master of the curse is, if it is Archer or Finn, but it doesn’t matter.

There is more than one way of defeating the Imperius Curse. The simplest is, admittedly, for the master of it to cease the spell, but Michael knows better than to think that either Finn or Archer would be willing to release their holds on Louis and Zayn. Even now, in the midst of the fractured magic, Finn needs their forced-loyalty. Finn needs everything he can get.

A specific potion would do the trick, as well, to get rid of the curse. The Wit-Sharpening Potion, if Michael correctly recalls, helps to clear the mind, and Michael himself is proof that it works. He can still smell the aroma of it tickling his nose from where Luke had pressed the potion-soaked bandana up against his mouth. Michael glances over at Luke, who is still pinned to the floor, but the problem is that Luke doesn’t have the bandana anymore. It is laying abandoned out of reach, on the other side of a fracture in Hogwarts’ magic. It is too risky to chance it, so Michael doesn’t.

Michael turns back to Louis and Zayn instead. There is a third and final way that, theoretically, he could destroy the spell. He meets both of their eyes for a fraction of a second—green to blue, green to brown—and he hopes that they understand the apology in his own eyes. He raises his wand, points it right at the spot where their shoulders are touching, and he lets an complex summoning spell fall from his lips.  

Louis and Zayn stumble out of their bubble of safety and into the unsteady, fractured magic of Hogwarts under the influence of Michael’s spell. Zayn goes for his wand. The smoky magic is thicker—darker—inside of him. Louis, his gaze still locked with Michael’s, grabs Zayn’s arm. Clarity glints in Louis’s eyes. It is a little too much for somebody under the effects of the full Imperius Curse to possess, and Michael thinks that Louis, at the very least, understands what is going on.

Michael doesn’t know why Louis is compliant with a wand pointed straight at him when everything inside of the curse placed on Louis should compel him to fight back. Maybe Louis read that book before he and Zayn gave it to Michael for Christmas—or maybe Louis has had a minor tango with a Wit-Sharpening Potion. Either way, it doesn’t matter. Michael needs to get rid of the curse. It is the least he owes his friends.

Michael nudges the cyclone of magic toward Louis and Zayn, and he watches as Hogwarts lets go of the iron colored magic to consume the dark, smoky magic instead. It is almost too much to watch—almost too bright, too terrifying, too powerful—but Michael does it anyway.  The magic of Hogwarts brightens into a blinding white. Michael squints his eyes against it, unwilling to look away in case he is wrong—in case this goes completely, horribly wrong and he has to jump in and offer himself up instead, despite Hogwarts’ wish to keep him safe.

The dark smoky magic swirls up into the cyclone until there is nothing left. Louis and Zayn crumble to the floor, their legs useless under them. Hogwarts brightens and brightens and brightens until even Michael has to close his eyes. The air grows thicker. It feels just like it does whenever a void closes behind Michael, and then—

Michael feels like he is falling, but he knows he isn’t actually moving. He chances to open his eyes. The first thing he sees is Calum staring wide-eyed and terrified at the spot where the cyclone had separated him from Michael. Slowly, ever-so-slowly, Calum lifts his gaze to meet Michael’s eyes, and Michael’s heart skips a beat in his chest. Michael smiles, partially out of relief and partially because Calum always makes him want to smile. Calum smiles right back at him.

Michael looks away to observe the aftermath of everything. Hogwarts is reassembled before him. The undiluted crystal white magical core of Hogwarts seeped back into the castle where it belongs.  The stone corridor is untouched as if the past few minutes were nothing more than a dream. Michael knows it was real. He sees that it was, too, in the people left behind. Finn is gasping for breath, crowded against the wall, as his body readjusts to the returned magic. Archer is still stunned up the corridor, and Professor McGonagall stands at the other end of the corridor with her wand still held high in the air.

Everything is back to the way it should be. Hogwarts is strengthened by the dark magic that had once strummed through Louis and Zayn. Michael knows, according to the book he got for Christmas, that Hogwarts has already neutralized the darkness into pure magic. He also knows that, even with this magic, Hogwarts is still weak. It is still healing.

But, for now, Hogwarts releases its protective holds over everybody. The danger has passed. Hogwarts has done its job making sure that Michael and everybody else remained safe in the fractured magic.

Once freed, Luke wastes no time crawling over to Ashton. He scrambles across the stone floor on his hands and knees, because going through the motions of standing up right would cost him precious seconds. Ashton hasn’t moved since he hit the wall and fell lifelessly to the ground. He is barely breathing. When Luke reaches out to touch him, Luke winces, and Ashton doesn’t react.

“He’s ice cold,” says Luke, frowning up at Michael and the others.

His gaze drops back down to Ashton just as quickly as it had left. He brushes back Ashton’s curls, the gesture more intimate than anything Michael has ever witnessed. Luke touches Ashton like he is afraid Ashton might break. Judging by the pale, lifeless expression resting on Ashton’s face, Michael thinks it is quite possible that Ashton really might fall to pieces underneath a harsh touch.

Michael feels sick as his stomach. He stumbles toward Luke and Ashton, notes how much thicker the still-weak magic of Hogwarts feels the nearer he gets. It is almost as if Hogwarts itself is the only reason Ashton is still alive—it it almost as if Hogwarts has been giving its all to keep Ashton alive even when its own magic was fractured into thousands of pieces.

“Take him to Madam Pomfrey, Mister Hemmings. I shall speak with Mister Hood and Mister Clifford and then with you,” instructs Professor McGonagall.

Luke nods his head, his hand going for the pocket of his robes where his wand is normally kept out of habit. It isn’t there, of course, because he had been disarmed earlier. Michael flicks his own wand, summoning both Luke’s and Ashton’s. He tosses both to Luke, because it is the least he can do for being so, so mean to Luke and to Ashton and for being the reason that Ashton is now unconscious on the stone floor of Hogwarts. Luke catches both wands without even looking back at Michael. He uses his own to conjure a stretcher. Professor McGonagall helps Luke get Ashton onto it, and then Luke carefully— _oh so carefully_ —walks Ashton toward the staircases. 

Professor McGonagall turns back to the remaining students. Her gaze flits over Archer, still stunned on the floor from Calum’s earlier spell, and Finn, who is cowered back against the wall that had once exploded into hundreds of pieces, before her eyes come to rest on Michael. She sighs like she has seen entirely too much for one lifetime. For somebody who has lived through two wars, Michael supposes she probably has.

“Mister Tomlinson, Mister Malik, kindly go collect the heads of the houses,” says Professor McGonagall, like the true Headmistress of the school that she is. She flicks her wand toward Archer, releasing the stunning spell, and then she looks to Louis and Zayn. People deserved to be looked at when they are given orders. “They should be in the Great Hall with the rest of the school. Tell them to meet me in my office. I will need to speak with the pair of you as well, so meet me there as well.”

“Of course, professor,” agrees Louis, but he doesn’t move when Zayn sets off to obey her orders. He turns to Michael instead, and blue meets green once more. “Michael, I’m so sorry. Z and I tried to—”

“I know,” says Michael, cutting him off, though, truthfully, Michael isn’t entirely sure he does know everything Louis wants to apologize for or everything Louis and Zayn tried to do for him. What he does know is that Louis and Zayn are sorry, that they were never against him, and that they only wanted to protect him this entire time. For now, that is enough. They can talk later. “I’m sorry, too.”

Louis looks like he wants to say that Michael has nothing to be sorry for, but Michael waves him on to follow Zayn. Louis nods, accepting Michael’s apology with a sad smile. His gaze flashes toward Finn and Archer once before he sets off after Zayn.

Michael follows Louis’s glance to find Finn staring back at him. He winces at the pure fear written clear across Finn’s aristocratic face. Fear isn’t something that Michael revels in. He is nobody to be feared. It was all of Hogwarts’ doing. Hogwarts took Finn’s magic when Finn was to mean to Michael, and Hogwarts, not Michael, returned Finn his magic. He wants to tell Finn this, but he doesn’t think Finn would understand. He doesn’t think Finn would care.

He turns to Professor McGonagall instead.

“It was them the entire time, professor,” he says, solemnly. As Hogwarts stitches itself back together with the dark magic that had flourished in Louis and Zayn for the past few weeks, the only thing left is confessions. “Finn and Archer attacked Calum at the quidditch match, and they used dark magic on Luke to try to make him do unmentionable things, and they cursed Louis and Zayn to get to me. It was all to get to me.”

“No, Mister Clifford. I believe it was all to find an easy solution to a difficult problem,” says Professor McGonagall, frowning. She sighs again, and Michael wonders if Finn and Archer’s solution could really be considered easy. “I am going to need to speak with everybody involved in this, and I need to contact the ministry. This matter is nearly out of my hands—the unforgiveable curses are illegal. As such, this needs to be handled in official capacity. We shall convene in my office. Follow me.”


	28. Chapter 28

Michael and Calum walk hand-in-hand to Professor McGonagall’s office, where, waiting on them, are several ministry officials, the heads of the four Hogwarts houses, Louis, and Zayn. It is so crowded that Professor McGonagall wastes no time in delegating tasks. Finn and Archer both need to be examined by Madam Pomfrey, so Professor Slughorn and four ministry officials escort them to the hospital wing. They will be questioned separately there. Professor Slughorn, as the head of their house, will serve as a pseudo-legal guardian, as per the standard protocol for Hogwarts students. This is only practical, as many of the students who attend Hogwarts are muggleborn or have a muggle parent, and muggles are unable to reach Hogwarts.

Professor McGonagall splits everybody else up, too, directing each of them to the several empty classrooms in the corridor outside of her office. Professor Flitwick is also sent to the hospital wing where Luke will be questioned by a ministry official. Calum goes with Professor Sprout, and Professor Vector, as head of Gryffindor house and the only head which doesn’t have a conscious charge, escorts Louis and Zayn from the office. They are all followed by ministry officials.

When the door closes behind Zayn, Michael feels lonely in the large office. The only people left other than himself are Professor McGongall and a single ministry official. Professor McGonagall offers Michael a warm smile as she directs him into one of the chairs in front of her desk. The ministry official, an Auror, sits down in the other one, and when he addresses Professor McGonagall, he calls her _Minerva_ on an unpracticed tongue.

The Auror introduces himself as Neville Longbottom. Professor McGonagall fields several questions on Michael’s behalf—questions like _what year are you in?_ and _have you had any prior run-ins with Finn and Archer?_ Michael feels a little safer hearing Professor McGonagall’s strong responses— _fifth year, Slytherin,_ and _this is not an isolated incident_ —as a legal guardian would do. Michael feels a spike of relief shoot straight through his heart that the head of his house, Professor Slughorn, is not filling such a position. Perhaps it is purposeful. Perhaps Professor McGonagall knows about Professor Slughorn’s less-than-favorable opinion about Michael and about Michael’s own disinclination for the professor. Or perhaps it is mere chance.

Either way, it doesn’t matter. Professor McGonagall is doing her best as to answer the Auror’s questions, but, in the end, she can only answer so much. There is only so much she knows, so when it comes time for him to answer the Auror’s questions, Michael offers them up as he would if Professor McGonagall herself were asking him.

“Tell me about this incident,” prompts the Auror.

Michael does, but he takes the long way around, not wanting to miss a single thing. He starts with the incident last year when his world had exploded for the very first time and Hogwarts had whisked him away to safety. He leaves out the parts about the voids, though, because he figures that is something which is precious to Hogwarts itself. Michael shouldn’t go spilling Hogwarts’ secrets to people who Hogwarts hasn’t trusted enough to bestow them itself.

He tells the Auror about the recent events. About Finn and Archer cornering him in various places around Hogwarts and threatening him. About them cursing Calum at the quidditch match with a spell so dark that even Michael’s last second defense did nothing to keep Calum out of the hospital wing for a week. About them bullying Ashton and Luke in order to isolate Michael from everybody he loved. About them using the Imperius Curse on Louis and Zayn who were trying to protect Michael. About them finally turning the Imperius Curse on Michael himself and forcing him to be mean to his friends.

When he finishes, he sums everything up by saying, his voice now hoarse, “Finn just wanted his magic back. That’s all. He and Archer thought I could give that back to them—so they bullied me until I did.”

He doesn’t talk about fractured magic, and the Auror doesn’t ask him about it. Michael doesn’t mention the spell he had found at the end of an old spellbook that had blasted apart the thin fractured magic and allowed Hogwarts to consume the raw, brutal curse directed straight at Calum’s heart. Michael also doesn’t mention that the spell in question had contained a fail-safe mechanism that had created shields out of excess magic and had ensured nobody got lost in the dangerous fractures of Hogwarts. These are Hogwarts’s secrets.

Michael doesn’t talk about how Hogwarts is still fractured. How it is still healing. How it is still weak. Perhaps the Auror already knows. Perhaps he understands more than Michael himself that Hogwarts was scarred from the war that raged inside of it. Michael has heard the name Neville Longbottom. He has read it alongside Harry Potter in the dozens of books commemorating the war and its heroes. If anybody were to understand that sometimes magic breaks and doesn’t mend—that sometimes it takes and doesn’t give back—it would be this Auror. It would be Neville Longbottom.

“Thank you, Mister Clifford,” says the Auror when Michael is finished. He doesn’t stumble over Michael’s surname like Michael might have assumed he would. Certainly, the Auror knows of Michael’s family and what they did in the war. He has to, but if he does, he keeps it to himself. “That is everything I need from you. Unless Professor McGonagall has anything else, you are free to go.”

Professor McGonagall, as it turns out, doesn’t need anything else from him. She dismisses Michael with a sad smile, like she is awfully sorry that all of this happened. Michael ducks out of the office but not before he catches the glint of pride in Professor McGonagall’s eyes. It is the glint she had that day in the corridor when Michael had turned Finn and Archer into slugs—when she had awarded him sixty points for his fine wand work. He thinks maybe he has impressed her again by doing what no other Hogwarts student has: by fixing Hogwarts.

He doesn’t stick around to find out if he has indeed impressed her. He heads down the staircase to the corridor, feeling exhaustion creep into his bones. He shoves his hands into his pockets. It has been a long day already, and it isn’t even over yet. He still needs to visit Ashton in the hospital wing. He hopes that Calum is finished with his own questioning, so that they can go to the infirmary together.

Michael isn’t exactly sure what to expect from the hospital wing. Anxiety churns in his stomach. He hopes that Ashton is already awake and laughing with Luke, but he remembers how Ashton’s head had banged against the unforgiving stone wall and how loudly the crack had echoed down the corridor. The idea of Ashton being absolutely, one hundred percent fine feels impossible. Impractical.

Calum is, thankfully, waiting on Michael at the landing. As soon as Michael is in reach, Calum throws his arms around him, wrapping them around Michael’s neck. He draws Michael in for an eager, bruising kiss. Michael gasps into it, surprised but pleased. He withdraws both of his hands from his pockets to wrap his arms around Calum and pull Calum in closer to deepen the kiss. It tastes a bit desperate, and Michael can’t help but to remember the split-second fear he had felt in his soul whenever Finn had turned that horrible spell onto Calum. Michael kisses Calum even harder.

“If you ever decide that you should sacrifice yourself—or your magic—again, I will kill you myself, all right?” says Calum, when they break the kiss to breathe. They pant against each other. Calum’s lips brush against Michael’s as he speaks. “And then you’ll just have to come back as a ghost to haunt me, because I can’t live without you.”

Michael chuckles. It is a wet sort of sound, because he is so overwhelmed with the realization that _it’s over_ that he can’t handle the rush of emotions crashing over him. He is happy, relieved, euphoric, and, mostly, in love. He wants to kiss Calum again, so he does, but it is a brief press of their lips before Michael breaks it. He steps back, creating a little bit of distance between them. Calum’s hands remain locked behind Michael’s neck, and Michael’s own hands rest on Calum’s hips. They both need the comforting, physical reminder that they are safe. They are alive. They are well. That is all that matters.

“I couldn’t live without you, either,” says Michael, because it is the truth. He couldn’t. “I had to stop Finn, and then I had to fix things, because it was all my fault.”

“It wasn’t,” says Calum. “Your fault, that is. You can’t blame yourself.”

“But if Finn hadn’t—”

“Exactly,” interrupts Calum. “If _Finn_ hadn’t been mean to you from the very beginning, none of this would have happened. It’s Finn’s fault—his and Archer’s—and none of it is yours, all right?”

Michael chews on his bottom lip. He casts his gaze to the floor, because he can’t handle looking Calum in the eyes any longer. Michael feels like curling up into a tiny ball under the intensity of Calum’s gaze. He wants to believe Calum. He does, because Calum loves him and has no reason to lie to him, but Michael’s mind flashes to the sight of Luke panting on the floor below him with Michael’s wand pointed straight at him. Michael had almost used his wand then. He had almost cursed Luke into oblivion… and Michael can’t blame that on the Imperius Curse.

“Yeah,” breathes Michael after a long moment. He pushes away thoughts of Luke. He doesn’t want to remember that horrible split second that he had almost crossed a line into territory he couldn’t come back from. He is going to have to face it soon, though, because Luke is his friend, and friends don’t have the desire to _curse_ each other. “Yeah, all right.”

Michael only agrees to pacify Calum. He doesn’t quite believe that he is faultless, but he will trust Calum for now, and he will apologize to Luke later, and everything will be all right again. Everything has to be, because Michael isn’t sure he can handle anything else going wrong in his life—not now at least when he is finally in the clear for the first time since he arrived at Hogwarts—not now when he is finally free of Finn and Archer.  

“I love you, Mikey,” says Calum. He grins again, ducking his head as if he can hardly believe that he gets to say those words. Michael’s toes curl. “I know you don’t believe me, but I’m right, and I’ll—wait. What is that?”

Calum points down at the space of floor between their feet. Michael turns his attention to it. There, laying right next to the toe of his boot, is a simple white letter with a familiar wax seal. Michael’s heart plummets to the ground. He knows that letter. He had hidden it away on purpose. It must have fallen out of his pocket a few moments ago when he went to hug Calum.

The letter itself is crumbled. The wax seal is broken. Both must be from Michael tumbling around on the floor with Luke earlier. Before Michael can even think to stop him, Calum bends down to pick it up. He smoothes it out. When he does, the top fold of it comes undone, and Michael watches as Calum’s face pales right before his eyes.

“Mikey, have you—have you read this?” asks Calum, his voice shaky, as he looks up.

Michael shakes his head, his stomach beginning to churn. It is from his parents. Of course, he hasn’t read it. The last time he read a letter from them, they had broken his heart. He hasn’t had time to prepare himself to read another letdown, not between being cursed and then fracturing the magic of Hogwarts.

“I think that maybe you should sit down.”

Michael’s heart leaps to his throat. He tries to swallow around it. He can’t. He chokes instead. He coughs to regain his breath. Once he does, he waves his hand around, gesturing at the empty corridor around them. Calum frowns at him, looking like the human embodiment of sympathy. Michael feels a little hysterical.

“Where, Cal? There aren’t exactly chairs here,” he says. He hopes that, maybe, the more sarcastic he is, the less painful the letter will be. It is a stupid endeavor, of course. This is a letter from his parents, and those are never good. Those are never nice.

“I’m so sorry, Mikey,” says Calum, and Michael’s chest tightens in knots. Calum’s eyes start to water. His voice is wobbly. “I’m so, so very sorry.”

He sounds like he really is, like his own heart is breaking, and Michael can’t think of a single reason that a stupid letter from Michael’s parents would make _Calum_ cry. He opens his mouth to ask Calum exactly why he feels the need to say he is sorry, but Calum takes pity on him. He hands Michael the letter, draping himself around Michael in the same movement so that if Michael were to fall, Calum would catch him.

Michael doesn’t know what to expect when he unfolds the rest of the letter. He doesn’t know why Calum feels the need to hold him up when Michael is doing fine remaining upright on his own. When he casts his eyes to the opening line, though, the entire world stops spinning. His heart plummets to the ground as his gaze flits over the beautiful script.

 _Your mother is dead_.

 Michael has to read the words three times before they really sink in. Once they do, his knees buckle underneath him. He goes lifeless in Calum’s arms, his hands shaking so badly that he nearly rips the simple white parchment of the letter right in two. Numbness begins to spread across Michael’s body, starting from his heart and spreading outward until he can feel nothing—not even the pain of overwhelming loss from the death of a family member, from the death of his mother.

He begins to tremble full-bodied in Calum’s hold. Calum takes the letter from Michael’s grasp, folds it gently, and shoves it into his own pocket. Michael hardly notices. His vision goes all blurry, but he won’t cry. He can’t cry. Not over his mother. Not over the woman who was supposed to love him unconditionally but had, time after time, raised her wand against him. Michael shouldn’t cry over a witch like that.

Still, though, his body betrays him. He draws in a trembling breath as the first tear spills down his left cheek. Another one cascades down his right cheek, and then Michael is full out sobbing in Calum’s arms.

Michael’s mother is dead.

The woman who birthed him.

Who raised him.

Who must have loved him underneath the thick veil of cold indifference she wore.

She is dead.

And Michael cries.

He cries for so long that his head starts to hurt. He stops actually producing tears, but, even then, he doesn’t quit. He ends up dry-sobbing into the crook of Calum’s neck, feeling Calum’s strength all around him. Calum rubs up and down Michael’s back, and he holds Michael close like Michael might break into a thousand pieces right in his arms, and he murmurs nonsense condolences that Michael doesn’t understand but appreciates nonetheless.

Michael’s mother is dead.

Eventually, Michael tires himself out of crying. It is more grief than his mother deserves from him, probably, but he figures this is for him. He is already so wound tight from everything that has happened—from the curse to the fractured magic to Ashton and everything in between, and now this. Something had to give.

But Calum is here, and, once the numbness begins to recede inside of his chest, Michael takes a deep breath. He breathes Calum in. He feels so, so loved in Calum’s embrace that there isn’t room for unappreciated sadness. Calum places a soft, gentle kiss to the top of Michael’s head.

“I’m sorry, Mikey,” repeats Calum like he doesn’t know what else to say.

That is okay, though, because Michael isn’t sure what he would want to hear. It is enough that Calum is holding him like he is too terrified to let Michael go. Michael presses a chaste kiss against the skin of Calum’s neck, right next to his Adam’s apple, and by the way that Calum’s breath stutters the next time he inhales, Michael thinks Calum understands it is meant to be a _thank you_ and an _I love you_ wrapped up into one.

“Can we, er, see if Ashton is awake now? I don’t—I don’t want to think about this now,” says Michael. He can’t dwell on his dead mother any longer. She doesn’t deserve such niceties from him. He doubts she ever offered them to him.

“Of course.”

“And, er, can we not mention the letter to anybody? At least for now?” asks Michael, because Luke and Ashton shouldn’t have to worry themselves over the death of Michael’s mother, not until Madam Pomfrey deems Ashton to be fine. They have bigger things to worry about than the death of a woman that hated Michael.

Calum seems to understand this. He presses another kiss to the top of Michael’s head, and he nods his own. Michael revels in Calum’s hold for a moment longer before he extracts himself. He reaches for Calum’s hand, needing to touch Calum and be reminded that Calum is here even though he can plainly see him. Calum meets Michael halfway and threads their fingers together.

Together, they stroll silently down to the hospital wing. Michael holds Calum’s hand the entire time. He needs Calum’s strength, and, thankfully, Calum seems to need to give it to him. Michael soaks it up for what it is worth. He lets Calum’s love consume him and push out the empty sadness that has settled in his bones. He doesn’t want to be sad about his mother’s death. He doesn’t want to feel anything.

When they reach the hospital wing, Calum pushes open the door and lets them inside. It is easy to spot Ashton in the bed farthest down the left hand row. It is the only one currently occupied in the entire wing, but even if it wasn’t, the commotion around his bed is enough to immediately draw Michael’s attention there. Luke is seated next to Ashton’s bed, one hand clutching Ashton’s slack one, and vehemently refusing to step into the back office to speak with Professor Flitwick and the ministry official.

“No, I won’t leave him alone,” says Luke. His voice is probably a little too loud for the setting of the hospital wing, but it is wobbly enough with anxiety that nobody seems to have the heart to ask him to quiet down. “Madam Pomfrey said he would wake up any minute, and I won’t have him to wake up alone.”

The ministry official says something to Luke that is too quiet for Michael and Calum to hear all way on the other side of the hospital wing, but whatever it is, it makes Luke glare at the official and shake his head. Michael would laugh at Luke’s stubbornness if it were any other situation—if it weren’t so heart-breaking. Luke loves Ashton so much that he physically can’t bring himself to let go of Ashton, not even for the few moments it would take to answer the ministry official’s questions.

“We’ll sit with him, Lukey,” says Calum. He heads toward Ashton’s bed, and Michael follows him. “He won’t be alone.”

Still, Luke is hesitant to leave Ashton’s side. Calum lets go of Michael’s hands to step up to Luke to speak with him in a low, soothing voice. Michael hangs back, going for the other side of Ashton’s bed, because he can’t face Luke. Not right now. Luke hasn’t looked at Michael once—though Michael hopes that this might be nothing. Luke isn’t really paying attention to anything that isn’t Ashton right now.

Michael isn’t brave enough to find out if that really is the reason that Luke hasn’t acknowledged him, so he conjures up a chair and sits down. He reaches for Ashton’s hand. It is cold, though nowhere near the iciness that Luke had described earlier in the corridor. Michael rubs circles on the back of it with his thumb. Ashton doesn’t react.

Calum convinces Luke to step into the back office with Professor Flitwick and the ministry official. He promises to come get Luke if something happens in the few minutes that it will take for the questioning. Luke is still reluctant to leave Ashton’s side, but, in the end, he sighs. He presses a soft kiss to Ashton’s forehead, gentle like Ashton is made of glass. Ashton’s hand certainly feels like it is made of glass in Michael’s grasp.

Luke walks off, heading for the office, while Calum sits down in the seat Luke had vacated. Calum looks as exhausted as Michael feels. He takes Ashton’s other hand in his, and he reaches across the bed for Michael’s. Michael meets him halfway. Calum’s hand is much warmer than Ashton’s. When Michael squeezes it, Calum squeezes it back.

Together, they sit for a few moments in silence.

Somewhere in the back of Michael’s mind, he muses that the four of them have spent entirely too much time in the hospital wing this year. First with Calum’s attack and then with Michael’s potion and now with Ashton’s attack, they have spent more than their fair share of time here. Michael hopes that, with Finn and Archer no longer a threat, this will be the last visit.

“I was afraid I’d have to bewitch Luke to make him leave Ashton’s side,” says Calum, trying for humor that falls flat in the sterile setting of the infirmary. “I wouldn’t have, of course—the Imperius Curse is illegal, and it’s been used too often as of late—but  I can’t say I blame him. I don’t think I’d be any better if it were you in that bed. Hell, I _wasn’t_ any better.”

“Neither was I,” says Michael, even though he and Calum were barely friends back when Calum was the one in Ashton’s position. “I don’t think you would have had much luck cursing Luke anyhow. He’s probably still got some of that Wit-Sharpening Potion in him from where we were rolling around on the floor.”

Calum chuckles, and Michael joins in. It is a stiff affair, but anything is better than the oppressive silence that otherwise hangs over the hospital wing. Michael continues rubbing circles on the back of Ashton’s hand.

 “Louis came to get me, you know,” says Calum, looking up from Ashton to meet Michael’s eyes. “The game was getting ready to start, and Louis came running onto the field without his uniform on, and I knew something was wrong. I jumped off my broom. Louis told me that Finn and Archer were planning something bad. He didn’t know where, and I didn’t know where, but Hogwarts just—it opened up a void right there like it knew you needed help. I mean, it probably _did_ know you needed help.”

Michael smiles. Luke had essentially said the same thing when Hogwarts hadn’t allowed Michael to give up his magic. Hogwarts has taken good care of Michael over the past five years. He would give anything for Hogwarts to take care of Ashton now.

“You saved my life, Cal,” he says. “You all did.”

“We’re friends, Mikey, and I love you,” says Calum as if it is that simple—and, for once, _it is_. “Besides, who else would kiss me?”

“Certainly not me.”

It takes Michael a second to realize that Calum didn’t answer his own rhetorical question, and when Michael finally does, he glances down to find Ashton grinning impishly up at the pair of them. Michael feels a rush of relief wash over him. He lets go of Ashton’s hand to throw his arms around Ashton in a hug so tight that Ashton grunts underneath him. Michael wants to apologize for being so rough—he really does—but he is so overwhelmed with happiness that _Ashton is awake_ that he can’t contain himself.

Vaguely, Michael hears Calum say he is going to get Luke, but Michael is too busy spilling apologies into Ashton’s ear to concentrate on anything else. Michael mutters apology after apology—things like _I’m so sorry!_ and _I was so, so scared!_ and _I’m so glad you’re awake. Please forgive me!_ —until he nearly talks himself hoarse.

It takes Michael entirely too long to realize that Ashton, tense in Michael’s hold, isn’t hugging him back.

Michael pulls away from Ashton with a sickening feeling welling up in the pit of his stomach. Ashton blinks up at him, the corners of his lips turned down into a frown. Distantly, Michael sees Calum and Luke heading for the bed, but he can’t bring himself to look away from Ashton’s eyes. They are glinting at him, uncertainty shining bright as if Michael is nothing more than a mere stranger to Ashton.  

“No offense,” says Ashton, his voice rough. He has to clear his throat twice to get out the words. He glances briefly at Luke and Calum then rests his gaze on Michael. “But why are you here?”

Michael’s heart plummets to the floor. He glances helplessly up at Calum, but Calum looks equally as perplexed by Ashton’s question. Luke, frozen at the foot of Ashton’s bed, is of no better help. Michael takes an involuntary step back from Ashton, creating space that, normally, Ashton would be unhappy with. There is nothing normal about this—if there was, Ashton would have hugged him back and would have told him to shut up his apologies and would have said how glad he was that Michael was okay. Ashton didn’t do any of that.

“We’re friends—best friends,” says Michael. His voice is barely a croak, but his words come across coherent enough. “Why wouldn’t I be here?”

Ashton blinks at him, disbelief building behind his usually kind eyes. He laughs like Michael has told a good joke. He glances at Calum and Luke, expecting them to join in, and when they don’t, Ashton’s laughter fades. He turns back to Michael, his face expressionless.

“Sharing two classes doesn’t make us friends, Clifford. I mean, I don’t even know you.”

Michael’s heart skips a beat in his chest. He feels light-headed, like he might faint at any second. He stumbles back a couple of more steps until he hits the bed behind him, and he has to sit down upon it to keep from collapsing to the ground. Cold horror washes over him.

Ashton doesn’t think they’re friends, but they _are_ friends. They really are. Michael thinks he should tell Ashton as much, because it is the truth, but Michael’s voice catches in his throat. He doesn’t say a word. He just looks at Ashton in horror, feeling sick at his stomach at the turn of events.  

“Look, why am I here?” demands Ashton, turning to Calum and Luke, because, apparently, Michael is nothing to him. “Did Liam go bonkers during quidditch practice? Did I, like, take a bludger to the head or something? Because my head is killing me, and I _told_ Liam that we had the Cup in the bag this year—that we were practicing much earlier than everybody else and that it was just enough extra time to train up the new chasers before we have to play you lot.”

Luke pales a sickly color. Calum gasps, covering his mouth in the next instant like he can’t believe what is right in front of his eyes. Michael understands the feeling. Horror knots inside of Michael’s own chest as he starts to put together the same pieces Calum and Luke have already assembled.

“Ash—what’s the last thing you remember?” asks Calum, faintly.

“Quidditch try-outs,” says Ashton, confident until the identical expressions of pure horror don’t leave Luke’s or Calum’s face. Ashton glances over at Michael, and he is met with the same reaction. “Look, I know Gryffindor had a pretty awful team last year, but, I mean, it’s only try-outs, and we’ve got a good—”

“You don’t remember anything beyond your try-outs?” demands Luke. He sounds half-crazed, like he is hoping beyond all hopes that this is just an awful nightmare, and he is going to wake up any moment now to Ashton laughing, whole and healthy. This isn’t a nightmare, though. Luke must know as much.

Ashton bites his bottom lip, looking between Luke and Calum and Michael. Slowly, after what seems like an eternity, he shakes his head. Luke’s hand flies up to cover his mouth. He lets out a muffled gasp that sounds like the end of the world. Michael thinks he himself might cry for the second time today. Ashton is much more deserving of his tears. Only Calum is brave enough to speak up. When he does, he speaks in a detached voice like he wishes he were saying anything else.

“Ash, that was six months ago.”

“ _No_ ,” breathes Ashton, looking from Calum to Michael to Luke. It sounds more like disbelief than a flat denial. “You’re wrong. It—it can’t have been.”

But it was, and Michael knows that Ashton realizes this. Ashton has to. The proof is right before him. Ashton meets Michael’s eyes one more time. Six months ago was September, and Michael didn’t save Ashton from the firecrabs until the beginning of November. The cold, hard truth begins to settle above them all.

Michael and Ashton are friends, but Ashton doesn’t remember it.


	29. Chapter 29

Madam Pomfrey gives Ashton a slew of memory regaining potions, but none of them work. Ashton still can’t remember a single thing past early September. On Monday, two days after Ashton woke up without his memories, Professor Vector escorts him to St. Mungo’s. As a muggleborn, his mother can’t take him, so it is up to Hogwarts staff to take care of him.

The healers keep him overnight, but it’s useless. They can’t do anything for Ashton’s memories either. They tell him he has a form of what muggles would call retrograde amnesia and that it was caused by blunt force trauma to his head. He remembers functional things—spells and skills and general knowledge of the wizarding world—but he doesn’t remember things or events that have happened to him in the six months between his last memory and now. According to the healers, a simple potion would typically do the trick and bring back his memory. It isn’t working in his case, and nothing else they know to do works, either. It is almost as if Ashton’s memories are no longer inside of him.

Ashton returns to Hogwarts the next morning with his head as empty as it was when he left.

Other than his memory loss, Madam Pomfrey declares Ashton in perfect health. Since neither she nor the healers can do anything to instantly fix his memory, she releases him from the hospital wing. She gives him strict instructions to return to her if he starts experiencing extremely painful headaches.

Ashton’s head always hurts, a tiny twinge of pain that is never eased by the numerous potions shoved down his throat, and he tells Calum as much when Calum escorts him from the hospital wing up to the Gryffindor Tower. He and Calum spend the night up there, cuddled together in Ashton’s tiny Gryffindor bed. Luke and Michael stay separately in their own dorms, because Luke hasn’t said a word about the nature of his relationship with Ashton, and Michael can’t bring himself to look Luke the eyes.

Finn and Archer are officially suspended from Hogwarts. They face criminal charges for their use of the Imperius Curse on their fellow students. When Professor McGonagall summons Michael to her office to pass along this news, she also tells him that Finn’s and Archer’s parents are considering transferring their sons to other magical schools to avoid any backlash that returning to Hogwarts might create. With any luck, Michael won’t ever have to see them again. He certainly hopes as much.

He relays this news to Calum right before Ashton is released from the hospital wing, and he turns down the offer to sleep in the Hufflepuff basement without Calum. Truthfully, Michael kind of misses his lakeside bed. None of his other dorm mates have ever been mean to him, so he doesn’t feel so scared walking into the Slytherin dungeon all alone any more.   

He isn’t actually alone, though. Newt is sleeping soundly in Michael’s pocket, an ever comforting presence. When Michael steps into the dungeon, he is even less alone. Louis and Zayn descend on him immediately, as if they had been staking out the entrance for hours. They nearly squash him with a bone-crushing hug. Louis rambles off apologies in Michael’s ear, so eager to say them that they all run together until they’re unintelligible at best. Michael appreciates the sentiment nonetheless.

“We did a bad thing, Mike,” says Zayn when he and Louis take pity on the fact that Michael can’t draw in enough air to fill his lungs. They step back from Michael so that they can look him in the face, because it is good manners to look somebody in the eye when one is apologizing. “We tried to look out for you, but we ended up being part of the problem we were trying to fix. We’re sorry.”

“It wasn’t your fault,” says Michael, because it wasn’t. “You were cursed, too, weren’t you?”

Zayn bites his lips together and nods, a shadow of regret hanging on his face. He looks like he wants to argue with Michael—like he wants to prove how it _was_ their fault—but he doesn’t try to. He isn’t really given a chance.

“Oh, _fuck_ , I tried to curse Luke!” wails Louis, his eyes wide with this sudden, horrifying recollection. “I tried to bloody destroy him! I was so—”

“No,” says Michael, cutting Louis off, but he winces at the memory. The spell Louis had chosen in his cursed state was nothing short of evil. It was the same one Finn had turned on Calum right before Michael had torn apart the fractured magic of Hogwarts. It was the very same one Finn had successfully used against Michael last year when Hogwarts had had to whisk Michael away to safety on the other side of the castle. It creates an awful fear in the back of Michael’s mind, the idea that Louis almost landed it on Luke, but Michael knows it wasn’t Louis who was behind it. “That was Finn and Archer, Lou, not you.”

“But—”

“No _buts_ ,” says Michael. He snorts to himself at the irony of using this very argument against Louis when he himself had reluctantly bought it from Calum. “If Cal won’t let me blame myself, I’m sure not going to let you, either.”

“I could have hurt him,” says Louis, mournfully. “If it hadn’t been for you, I would have.”

Michael doesn’t argue with him there, because it is true. If Michael hadn’t intercepted the curse, it would have hit Luke and taken hold right in Luke’s heart and would have eaten away at Luke until he was nothing more than pain encased in a human body. The very idea leaves bad taste of horror in the back of Michael’s mouth.

“There was a condition in the curse,” says Zayn. “Finn got to Louis before he did me, and I remember what he said. There was a trigger word—or maybe more like a trigger phrase? I dunno, but, basically, whenever anybody spoke ill of Finn or Archer, the spell made us do bad things. That’s why Louis attacked Luke, because Luke spouted off about Finn and Archer.”

“And that’s why Louis tried to attack me before the quidditch match,” says Michael, but he is mostly thinking out loud about how strange it had been for Louis to try to convince Michael to hide away in safety and then whip out his wand in the next moment. “They really thought this through, didn’t they?”

“They were trying to take you down,” says Zayn with a snort. He shakes his head, amused. “Nobody can do magic like you can, and they knew that. They knew they had to take you down some other way.”

“And Z and I put ourselves in the prime position to help them fuck you over,” says Louis, stubbornly despondent.

“You were trying to look out for me,” says Michael. “I can’t exactly hold that above your heads.”

“We’ve been bad Slytherins, Zayn and me, but we’d like a second go at being your friend.”

Michael shakes his head, grimacing.

“Sorry, but I don’t think I can give you lot a second go at that,” he says, and he watches as Louis’s expression falls. He would feel guilty if it weren’t for all of the effort he is having to put forth to keep the grin off his face before he drops the punch line. “As far as I’m concerned, you’re still on the first go. Friends look out for each other, right? That’s what you were doing.”

Louis grins so wide, Michael is afraid his lips are going to pop off his face. He dashes forward, wrapping his arms around Michael’s neck and drawing him for another bone-crushing hug. Michael laughs right into it, his face smashed against the side of Louis’s head. When Zayn doesn’t join them quickly enough, Louis reaches out and drags him into the hug as well. Together, they sandwich Michael between them. It feels like friendship and protection, and Michael could spend the rest of forever wrapped up in their arms.

He doesn’t, though, because they all need to go to bed. Michael has a long day ahead of him tomorrow, as he and Calum are traveling home for Michael’s mother’s funeral. Michael turns down Louis’s offer for Michael to sleep in their dorm like old times. They don’t argue too much with him, because with Finn and Archer gone, Michael is as safe in his own dorm as he would be in theirs. There isn’t anything to worry about anymore, so they part ways with him at the dorms.

Michael crawls into his bed for the first time in weeks. The view of the lake is just as beautiful as ever. He pulls out Newt and lays the hedgehog in the spot on his pillow between his head and the lake. Michael drifts off to sleep, safe and content in his own bed.

The next morning, Michael treks alone up to breakfast. He is already dressed in his best dress robes. Some of the other students, the ones who don’t know about his mother’s death, give him odd looks for his attire. Those who do know why he is dressed so formally offer him condolences. He appreciates their concern, as flimsy as it probably is, and, soon enough, everybody leaves him alone to his breakfast at the Slytherin table.

“I can go with you, you know,” says Luke, sitting down across from Michael before Michael has even had a chance to reach for the egg platter next to his plate. “Cal said the funeral was today, and you’ve been avoiding me, so I haven’t had a chance to tell you that you’re not alone and that I’ll go to the funeral with you, too.”

“I’ve not been—”

“You have been,” says Luke, raising his eyebrows in a manner that suggests he knows Michael too well to buy the white lie. “You won’t hang out with me when Calum and Ashton aren’t around to act as a buffer, and yesterday in potions, you acted as if I’d, like, kicked you when I offered you the extra vial of potion. You’re avoiding me.”

Michael sighs, because, yeah, he has been avoiding Luke. The truth is that he can hardly bring himself to look at Luke, let alone speak to him. Michael doesn’t know what to say. He doesn’t know how to express how _sorry_ he is for being so mean to Luke, who didn’t deserve to be treated like that. To make things worse, Michael isn’t sure how much he can blame on the curse.

“I know why you are,” says Luke when Michael doesn’t speak. “You think that you hurt my feelings the other day, but you didn’t. I had to get you to attack me so that I could force you to take the Wit-Sharpening Potion. I purposefully riled you up. I knew how to make you mad, and I did it. You’re my friend, Mikey. I know you didn’t mean what you said.”

“I didn’t mean a single word,” says Michael, mournfully.

He stares down at his plate. He feels like the worst friend in the entire world, because he didn’t mean anything he said to Luke, but _he still said it_. He dares to look up to meet Luke’s eyes. Luke is looking at him like they’re still best friends, and Michael doesn’t deserve such a nicety.

“I don’t think you’re filth. I mean, you and Ashton are beautiful together, you know? I’m not mad about the whole hair thing, either. You gave me a potion to fix it, even if I did mess that one up, but then you taught me how to change the color whenever I wanted, and that’s awesome,” says Michael. He pauses, frowning. “Mostly, though, I didn’t mean what I said about your parents, and I’m very, very sorry about that. I didn’t know them, of course, but I think they would be proud to have a son like you, and I’m sorry that my parents did what they did in the war.”

“I know, Mikey,” says Luke, still smiling. “I knew all of that when you were cursed, too. You don’t have to apologize to me.”

“But I do,” says Michael. “Because there was a second right after the spell wore off when I still wanted to curse you—I almost did, but Calum appeared out of nowhere and distracted me. I am mostly sorry about that, because I don’t ever want to hurt you, and I almost did, and I can’t blame that on the curse.”

“Everything was so intense in the heat of the moment. You can’t honestly believe that you would have gone through with hurting me anyway,” says Luke. “You’re my friend, Michael, and I know you better than that.”

Michael sighs. He doesn’t think he would have hurt Luke. He doesn’t think he _could_ , but that doesn’t change the fact that for a tiny sliver of a second, Michael was mad enough to want to.

“I’m sorry.”

“It’s all right,” says Luke. He reaches across the table and lays his hand on Michael’s for a brief moment. He smiles warmly like the good friend he is. “Really, it is. Please, don’t beat yourself up about this. You didn’t hurt me, and that’s all that matters.”

“That’s all that matters,” repeats Michael, though he isn’t sure he agrees with Luke. He has Luke’s apology, though, and that is enough for now. He changes the subject back to Luke’s original topic. “You don’t have to go with me to the funeral, though.”

“If you want me there, I’ll go.”

“You should stay with Ashton, so he isn’t alone.”

Luke sighs, dropping his gaze to the plate in front of him. Michael’s heart twists in his chest. Ashton doesn’t remember anything in the last six months, so he doesn’t remember that he is dating Luke, and that is even worse than Ashton not remembering the entirety of his friendship with Michael.

“Have you told him about, you know, the two of you?” asks Michael.

Luke shakes his head, biting his bottom lip. He sighs, long and drawn out like somebody who is carrying the weight of the entire on their shoulders. Michael figures that is an appropriate comparison for Luke, who is so in love with Ashton that he looks absolutely _lost_ without him.

“How d’you— _tell_ somebody something like that?” asks Luke. “Like, hey, you’re in love with me, and I’m in love with you, and we finally got our shit together. It just—it doesn’t _work_ like that.”

“He loved you for a long time,” says Michael. “That doesn’t just go away. He told me himself that he’d been head over heels in love with you since he could remember, so even if he doesn’t remember a single thing past September, he still loves you as much as you do him.”

Luke snorts, but it isn’t an unkind response. He musters up a wobbly grin as he glances back up at Michael. He is trying to put on a brave face, because that is what people do when they are faced with something they don’t know how to handle. That they don’t know how to overcome. Michael admires Luke’s bravery, because, if Michael himself were in Luke’s shoes and Calum didn’t remember their relationship, Michael isn’t sure what he would do.

“Loving me isn’t the issue,” says Luke. “I _know_ Ashton loves me. I do, but… Do you know how long it took him—it took the both of us—to stop caring about all of the mean things people have to say? We weren’t even together, and people were so, so mean. Ashton probably got it worse than me, y’know. Some of his dorm mates really gave him a hard time when he stopped hanging out with them and spent his time with me and Cal instead.”

“You can’t protect him from everything,” says Michael, because he knows how much Luke wants to. It is evident in every single thing Luke does, in how gentle he is with Ashton, and in how he speaks about Ashton. “Or you can, but it’ll be at the expense of you, and I’m pretty sure Ashton would choose you over everything in the entire universe.”

“Yeah, but what if he’s happy without me?” asks Luke. It is more of a mumble, but Michael hears it loud and clear across the table. “What if he’s _happier_ without me?”

“Impossible. Ashton loves you. There is no way he would ever be happier without you,” says Michael. He has never meant anything more in his entire life. “You know I’m right.”

“Yeah,” says Luke. He dares to look back up at Michael again. “But it’s so scary, you know, going up to him and telling him that I love him and he’s supposed to love me and we’re supposed to live happily ever after. It sort of feels like cheating the system.”

“It’s not,” says Michael. “Besides, don’t you think Ashton deserves to know that you love him? Doesn’t he deserve to hear you tell him that you love him? You’re not just shooting your own self in the foot with your wand here. You’re shooting Ashton, too, and that isn’t fair—to either of you.”

Luke sighs, dropping his head into his hands. His shoulders tremble. Michael isn’t sure Luke is crying—it doesn’t seem like he is—but Luke looks every bit like a defeated man who could right now. Michael wishes he could reach Luke all the way on the other side of the table without getting food all down the front of his nice dress robes, but he can’t, so he settles for hooking his foot around one of Luke’s ankles underneath the table instead.

“I just—it’s so hard, because we were finally together and happy, and now it feels like we’re back at square one.”

“Ashton’s memories are going to come back,” says Michael. “It’s just going to take a while, but, even with that, he is still in love with you.”

“I don’t want to force myself onto him,” says Luke. “He might not even be interested in dating me now.”

Michael snorts, and Luke glares at him.

“No, I’m serious. Ashton was very different—more reserved, I suppose—at the beginning of the year. I don’t really know how to explain it, but d’you remember the day the banner hung in the Great Hall?”

Michael winces, leaning back a little bit in his seat as if the created distance could take the brunt of Luke’s unkind reminder. Of course, Michael remembers that day. He will never, ever forget how his entire world ended that day, and he really wishes people would stop asking him that.

“Sorry—of course, you do,” mumbles Luke. He grimaces at his callousness, but Michael shrugs him off and waves him on. Luke must have a point to all of this or else he wouldn’t have so viciously brought up something that neither he nor Michael really wants to remember. “Finn tried to get me to, er, _touch_ him, y’know, using the Imperius Curse, but Calum saved me, of course, and, well, I think that’s when it really hit Ashton that we’d been acting foolishly all along. That’s when Ashton realized that us holding each other at arm’s length wasn’t really doing anything other than allowing one of us to get hurt, so he stopped being so… _afraid_.”

Michael hums in his throat to indicate that he is listening. He remembers the change in Luke and Ashton, though he hadn’t been there to see it for his very own eyes. He remembers how reserved Luke and Ashton were around each other when Michael first met them. The distance between them—the _fear_ they harbored—was never more obvious than it was the day Ashton accidentally kissed Luke full on the lips right before the Gryffindor-Hufflepuff quidditch match. That distance—that _fear_ —was virtually gone by the time Michael made up with the others. Luke and Ashton had gone from barely touching to not being able to keep their hands off one another, always desperate for the physical reminder of each other.

“It’s bollocks that it took something bad to get us to stop being so afraid, but it did, and that’s that, and I can’t change it, but now…” Luke trails off, but Michael doesn’t need Luke to spell it out for him.

“Ashton doesn’t remember it.”

Luke lets out a breath.

“Yeah. He doesn’t remember it, so he’s still scared, and I don’t know how to drop all of this on him without scaring him completely off. I mean, me and him—it’s sort of like too good to be true.”

“Funny,” says Michael. “That’s sort of how Ashton explained it to me, too, last week.”

Luke’s lips twitch into a ghost of a smile. It’s like he wants so badly to believe Michael but doesn’t want to allow himself such a luxury. Michael sighs sadly. He wishes he knew how to fix everything for Luke and Ashton, who, after all that they have done to help Michael, deserve all of the happiness in the world together.

“I understand,” says Michael, because he does. “It’s scary, Ashton not remembering. The idea of just dumping something big like this on Ashton is even scarier, but I still think he deserves to know.”

“He does,” agrees Luke, “and I will tell him, but not just yet. I want to ease him into it. Maybe make everything a little easier to believe.”

“There’s nothing easy about falling in love.”

“No,” says Luke, grinning for real this time, “but Ashton’s technically not falling in love with me. He already loves me.”

Michael has to smile about that, because he has no doubt that Ashton does indeed love Luke despite not remembering that he is allowed to. That Luke loves him back. He hopes that Ashton gets his memory back soon so that Ashton can recall how beautiful he and Luke are together and so that Ashton remembers that he doesn’t have to be scared of loving Luke. The world needs more love like Luke and Ashton’s.

But such a hope is empty for now. Michael and Luke enjoy their breakfast together, letting the conversation drift away from the subject of Ashton’s memory. That is probably for the best, as Calum and Ashton show up for breakfast only a few moments later. Calum, wearing his dress robes, takes the seat next to Michael. Ashton, after a second of hesitation regarding the Slytherin table, sits across from Calum next to Luke. Together, they dine four-strong, though slightly damaged.


	30. Chapter 30

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Huge thanks to everybody who has seen this story through and to anybody who has left me wonderful feedback in whatever form. ♥ 
> 
> I hope you enjoy the final chapter. :)

When breakfast ends, Michael and Calum leave for the funeral. They use the floo connection in Professor McGonagall’s office. Calum steps into the green fire first, and it takes him to his childhood home. Michael follows shortly thereafter. When he throws his handful of floo powder into the fireplace, he has it take him to the Clifford Manor instead. That is where the funeral is to be held. While Michael would have liked to have followed Calum to the Hoods’ residence, he doesn’t ask to go there. He will have his lunch there after the service anyway. For now, he settles on traveling to the cold, empty manor that is haunted by memories of his dead mother.

Michael arrives in the fireplace of the formal sitting room. He habitually steps out into the room but instantly stops as dozens of unkind childhood memories overcome him. His mother liked punishing him here in this room with the portraits of the Clifford family ancestors sneering down at him, the unruly heir. Michael can still feel the whip of her magic against the backs of his legs, slashing age-old scars into his pale skin while he refused to cry out in pain.

This is how Michael remembers his mother. He shivers, takes one look around at the sneering portraits, and thinks that, soon, one of his mother will join the others on the walls, and she will sneer down at him, too. He is more than ready to bury the woman who was supposed to care for him with a mother’s unconditional love. As he leaves, heading for the grand front entrance, he swears to himself that he will never, ever enter this room again for as long as he lives.

Some memories are better off forgotten.

The funeral is everything Michael’s mother would have wanted. It is held near the cemetery plot on the farthest corner of the ancient land upon which the Clifford Manor is situated. It is fancy and expensive and magical and seemingly every single person who had ever met her shows up at the wake to their pay their respects. Michael sits in the front like a proper pureblood son. He wishes C alum could have sat beside of him, but Calum isn’t pureblood, so Calum sits in the back with his own father and his muggleborn mother.

Thankfully, Michael isn’t completely alone in the midst of the sea of purebloods who hold dear all of the old traditions that Michael despises. He has Newt with him like always, tucked away in his pocket, and he spends the entire service running his thumb across Newt’s jumper-covered quills. As Michael’s father sits stoically next to him, more like a stranger than a parent, Michael is glad for the tiny, comforting presence of Newt in his pocket.

The funeral is somber as all are. The Minister for Magic himself holds the service, and Michael spends the entirety of it staring forward at nothing in particular. He refuses to cry for his mother. He has already spilled more tears than she deserves. She wasn’t proud of a son like him. He owes her no niceties, because he highly doubts she would have extended them to him.

After the service, Michael doesn’t bother sticking around to mingle with other mourners. He doesn’t share in their grief. He only wants Calum, and Calum is standing in the back with his family. Michael makes his way through the crowd straight to Calum, who looks dashing in his neatly pressed dress robes. He looks much nicer than Michael feels in his own, and when Calum spots Michael cutting through the throng of mourners, he grins.

Michael grins back, but in the next instant, he sees Mr. and Mrs. Hood standing with Calum, and his grin slips. His stomach churns with anxiety, because he hasn’t seen much of them over the past four and a half years since he told Calum that Hufflepuffs and Slytherins couldn’t be friends. He has fond memories of Mr. and Mrs. Hood treating him like their own son—treating him much better than Michael’s own parents did—but those memories are five years old at the youngest. A lot of things can change in half of a decade. Michael is terrified that their loving opinion of him might be one of those things.

His steps falter, but, somehow, he makes it to the Hoods nonetheless. Michael’s apprehension is immediately proven to be pointless. The moment he is within reach, Mrs. Hood greets him as if he were the still the same carefree ten-year-old she used to bake biscuits for all of the time. She throws her arms around him like a loving mother would, and she pulls him close. It feels like _home_ , like what a mother’s hug should feel like, and Michael wants to cry. It is the first time all day that he has wanted to cry, and, still, it isn’t over his own dead mother.

“I am so sorry for your loss, Michael,” says Mrs. Hood. She doesn’t add anything redeeming about Michael’s mother. Perhaps she doesn’t know what to say. Perhaps there isn’t anything _to_ say. It doesn’t matter. All that she cares about is Michael and how he is dealing with the loss of his mother. “When Calum wrote to us about your mother’s passing, we wanted to come here for you.”

Michael doesn’t know what to say. He hasn’t cried this entire time, but, here in the arms of a mother that was better to him than his own, he wants to break down. He doesn’t, because he is a Clifford, and Cliffords, apparently, don’t show emotions at funerals. He merely nods his head against Mrs. Hood’s shoulder, hoping that it suffices.

It does. After another moment, Mrs. Hood lets go of Michael, stepping back. Michael misses the all encompassing feeling of _unconditional love_ that he hasn’t felt in almost five long years, not since that day he had knocked over an entire plate of biscuits and she had hugged him instead of raising her wand against him like his own mother would have. He isn’t Mrs. Hood’s son, not by blood, but she had treated him as if he were as he grew up at Calum’s side.

“You know you’re always welcome at our home,” says Mr. Hood, as he, too, steps forward to offer his condolences. Where Michael’s own father might have settled with a cold, brisk handshake, Mr. Hood draws Michael in for a hug. It is every bit as warm as Mrs. Hood’s hug had been. It is also over too soon, but when Mr. Hood returns to his wife’s side, he smiles warmly at Michael. “You’re practically family for real now that Calum has finally stopped moping over you and decided to do something about it.”

“ _Dad_ ,” snaps Calum, his cheeks flushing in embarrassment that makes Michael chuckle softly. “You promised not to make a big deal out of it.”

“You told you parents about us?” asks Michael, pleased.

He tries to be quiet about it, but Calum’s parents hear the question nonetheless.

“Oh, yes,” says Mr. Hood, still grinning. “He wrote to us a week or so ago. Something as big as this? There is not a single chance in the world that Calum could keep it quiet—especially not after we have had to read letter upon letter about you over the past few years.”

“I wasn’t that bad,” mutters Calum, his cheeks still darkened in his blush.

Michael takes pity on him, because Calum is pretty when he blushes, but he is prettier when he blushes over _Michael_. He likes that Calum has told his parents about them anyway. He steps closer to Calum, taking Calum’s hand and squeezing it comfortingly. He hopes that it conveys all of the gratitude that he feels, because he isn’t sure that he has the right words to express it in any other manner.

By the way that Calum squeezes his hand back, smiling love-struck at him, Michael thinks that Calum does indeed understand everything he can’t say. Still, though, Calum shoots his parents a dirty, betrayed look that is more for show than anything else. He can’t keep the smile off his lips, so the effect of his glare is lost to how unbelievably gone for Michael he is.

“You were,” says Mrs. Hood, but she is smiling at Calum and Michael together. “That is okay. A wizard normally is when he is in love.”

Calum doesn’t have anything to say in response to that. It is true. He is in love with Michael, and Michael is with him, and they have told one another such, because life is short. There is no sense in waiting around to tell somebody how one truly feels, because everything could be changed in the blink of an eye—like it is for Luke and Ashton now.  

Even if Calum had wanted to respond to his mother, he is robbed of the opportunity to do so when Mr. Clifford strolls up to them all. Mr. Clifford is a tall man with an aristocratic air about him. He carries himself with authority, the old-regime type that exudes an aura of darkness so potent that it makes lesser wizards tremble before him. Michael has spent his entire life trying to fight against the urge to cower before his father.

“I am pleased that you could make it to my wife’s funeral, Mr. Hood, Mrs. Hood,” says Mr. Clifford, tense and cold and with as much pureblood bigotry as he can manage. It transforms his words of gratitude into nothing more than a thinly veiled suggestion for the Hoods to leave. “It is always good to know how one’s neighbors care about them.”

Mr. Hood offers Mr. Clifford a stern nod. It is sterile like a conversation between businessmen. It has no place for the somber setting of a funeral, but Mr. Clifford is not a friendly wizard.

“Our condolences,” offers Mrs. Hood. “Your wife always had the prettiest summer roses in her garden.”

It is the nicest gesture, perhaps, that Mrs. Hood can offer for a woman who detested the very existence of her kind. Michael wonders how Mrs. Hood has handled living so close to bigotry against her muggleborn status for decades. The war may be long over, but the old pureblood families have been long set in their ways. Old prejudices aren’t so easy to let go of—especially when witches and wizards such as Michael’s parents cling so tightly to them.

“They were her pride and joy,” says Mr. Clifford, shortly.

He glances at Michael as he speaks, and it is obvious that he would like a word with his son. The Hoods are not one for overstaying their welcome, especially since Michael and Calum will both be returning to Hogwarts via the floo set-up in their home. Mrs. Hood turns to Calum.

“We should head back now. I need to finish up lunch. You and Michael don’t take too long.”

So, the Hoods leave, slipping through the throng of mourners in the direction of their home on the other side of the property line. Soon, the thicket of trees swallow them up. Michael is left with Calum and his father on the edge of the cemetery plot where, up front, Michael’s mother’s coffin is still on display for a few moments longer.

“I am surprised you came,” says Mr. Clifford. He has always valued a straight attack, and this time is no different. “When I wrote you that letter—I was under the assumption you would not pay your respects.”

“She was my mother,” says Michael.

His hand is sweaty in Calum’s. He is so glad that Calum hasn’t even offered to leave and let Michael have this conversation with Mr. Clifford in private. Maybe Calum knows how much Michael doesn’t want to face his father alone. Or, maybe, Calum knows how oddly vulnerable Michael feels in the aftermath of his mother’s funeral.

It is an odd thing to come to terms with. Michael isn’t necessarily saddened by the death of his mother, as she was never hesitant to raise her wand against him, even for the slightest infractions. She was a cold, distant witch who had expectations for a perfect pureblood son that Michael could never, ever live up to, even if he had so wanted. Maybe somewhere deep down she loved him despite all of the disappointment he brought to her life. Maybe somewhere deep down he loved her, too, despite all of the ways she made him feel like he was worthless—like he was nothing.

Still, though, there is a small part of Michael that is saddened by the idea that his mother is dead. That is what fuelled his tears the day he read the letter informing him of her death. That is what brought him here to her funeral. That is what makes him feel vulnerable right now. His mother is dead, and she isn’t coming back.

“She was indeed your mother,” says Mr. Clifford. He sounds surprised, as if he had never thought Michael would utter such a truth about her. He recovers in the next instant, never one to show too much emotion or too much weakness. He digs into the pocket of his well-pressed, immaculate dress robes. He draws out a golden ring, which he holds between his thumb and first finger. “This was hers.”

Michael stares at it, unimpressed. He has seen this ring on his mother’s pointer finger every day for as long as he can remember. She wore it on her left hand, even though it clashed against the gaudy silver diamond ring she wore on her ring finger. Michael had always wondered why someone as obsessed with beauty would wear something so oddly out of place. He had never cared enough to ask.

“This has been passed down from father to son throughout the Clifford family for generations,” says Mr. Clifford. “My great-great-great grandfather befriended a metal charmer who gifted him this ring. It was said to be infused with magical properties which cleansed the wearer of any perturbation. He gave it to his new bride to ensure that she was certain about marrying him. She was. When his wife passed away, he passed on the ring to his son, and the tradition was born.”

Mr. Clifford pauses, his gaze flitting toward Calum for a fraction of a second. Something changes in Mr. Clifford’s eyes, and it reminds Michael of the crazed look of disappointment his father had given to him the night he was caught snogging the Minister’s son. When Mr. Clifford looks back at Michael and begins to speak again, his voice is softer than Michael has ever known it to be. It sounds almost eerie coming from his father’s lips.

“I gave this ring to your mother the night before we were wed, and she wore it until the day she died. Now, I shall pass it on to you.”

Michael wants to say that he doesn’t want the ring. He doesn’t want anything that has belonged to his mother or to the Clifford family, but Mr. Clifford presses it into his free hand and doesn’t let go until Michael wraps his fingers around it. The ring feels heavy in his palm. He stares at his father, but it feels like he is looking at an entirely different wizard. Never before has he witnessed his father in such a desperate state.

“Take it, and give it to whomever you choose,” instructs Mr. Clifford. “I shall see you for your summer break from Hogwarts.”

He doesn’t give Michael a chance to return the ring. He nods curtly at Michael and then at Calum before he spins on his heel and walks away. He has said his piece. He is done with his son until circumstances arise and they are forced into one another’s company once more.

“D’you remember the Hemmings family?” asks Michael, calling after his father on a whim. The ring feels hot and heavy in his fist. If this is a gift from his father meant to symbolize Michael’s place in the Clifford family, then Michael’s father deserves to know what Michael truly thinks of the values the Clifford family has always held through the generations.

Mr. Clifford stops dead in his tracks. He turns back to face Michael, but he says nothing. He doesn’t have to. A mask of indifference cloaks his face. Michael grew up exposed to every one of his father’s mannerisms. Michael learned how to read his parents like the back of his hand. He learned when he needed to run, and he learned when he needed to hide, and, now with everything he has learned, he is completely certain that his father does indeed know to whom Michael is referring.

“You sold out the family in the last days of the war,” says Michael, needlessly. “A mother and father and three young boys. D’you remember?”

“We don’t speak of the war,” says Mr. Clifford, but it isn’t an answer. It isn’t the truth, either. When all of the old pureblood families gather together, they do speak of the war. They lament over the decline of the old ways of pureblood superiority. They speak in low, proud voices of their parts in the fight against the new regime—in the fight against equality where old blood and wealth means nothing. They speak their forbidden wishes for another war, one that might turn the tides back in their favor.

“The mother was muggleborn, and the father didn’t have enough proof that he wasn’t, and they had three young boys, but you didn’t care. You slaughtered them and left their kids to grow up in a world hating your name.”

“That was a much different time back then,” says Mr. Clifford.

There is no remorse in his voice, but Michael isn’t particularly surprised. His father is proud of his duties for the great Dark Lord, even if, in the end, they had been for nothing. So many people had lost their lives because of Michael’s parents’ part in the war. Nearly fifteen years later, Michael truly believes his father would do it all over again in the name of pureblood supremacy. It makes Michael sick.

“It was,” agrees Michael, and he takes great joy in what he is about to say next. “Their youngest son—Luke Hemmings? He’s my age. We’re best friends.”

Mr. Clifford says nothing. He only narrows his eyes, and it is the sole indication that he even follows what Michael means. Michael had expected his father to frown with disappointment or maybe to try to convince Michael how tainted Luke’s blood is. Mr. Clifford doesn’t do either of those. He merely stares at his only son, wordless, like Michael hasn’t just professed a friendship with the son of one of the families the Cliffords had betrayed—of one of the families the Cliffords had killed.

Michael doesn’t know what to make of his father’s response. He doesn’t much care, though. He has said his part. His father knows that Michael really doesn’t buy into the old world regime that the Clifford family has always held dear. Perhaps the news that Michael has befriended a Hemmings isn’t all too surprising to his father. Michael has never, not even once, bought into the supremacy that his family spouts.

“I just thought you should know,” says Michael with a shrug as if he had merely told his father that it was going to rain the next day. “I shall see you for summer.”

Michael turns to head toward the Hoods’ house, but, in the split second before he looks away, he sees his father’s mask of indifference slip into something akin to betrayal. Michael’s heart lurches in his chest, but it feels more like a ghost reaction. He doesn’t care for his father’s approval. He would much rather have Luke’s friendship.

So he offers his father a parting smile, because he has won this round—maybe all of them from here on out—in the fight against his parents’ precious pureblood ideology. He isn’t his parents, and, now, his father knows for certain he never will be.

Michael stalks off toward the Hood’s home with Calum’s hand in his. His mother’s ring is a daunting weight in his fist. He considers dropping it in the tiny sliver of forest that separates the Clifford estate from the Hoods’ property. He drops it into the pocket of his dress robes instead.

Mrs. Hood has lunch on the table for them when they arrive, and it is the most delicious meal Michael thinks he has eaten in five years. Mrs. Hood fusses over him like she used to when he was a kid and she didn’t believe he was being fed enough, which, given that his punishments occasionally took the form of no dinners, she was probably right to worry over him then. Michael eats everything on his plate. When Mrs. Hood fills it up a second time, he eats all of that, too.

Michael feels so much love in this Hoods’ kitchen that he feels right at home—more so than he ever did in the cold, empty Clifford Manor.

When Michael and Calum return to Hogwarts that evening, the first thing Calum does is send one of the portraits in the corridor outside of Professor McGonagall’s office to the Ravenclaw common room where Luke and Ashton should be at this time of the day. Calum nicely asks the wizard in the painting to tell Luke that he and Michael have returned to Hogwarts and would be in the library. Luke should know where exactly Calum means in the library, so Calum waves off the portrait’s concern that his message may be too vague.

Together, Michael and Calum head toward the library, which is an entire floor down from the entrance to Professor McGonagall’s office. They had both changed out of their dress robes at Calum’s house. Michael is dressed in a set of Calum’s old robes. The shoulders are too large on him, but, otherwise, they fit him well enough. They are more comfortable than the dress robes, at the very least.

The first thing Michael does when he gets to the tiny nook in the back of the library is to set Newt up on the windowsill. He charms the edges of the sill so that the hedgehog can’t fall off, but it is probably a useless safety measure. Newt curls up into a ball on top of the tiny shrunken Slytherin jumper Louis had once gifted to Michael, and he falls asleep almost immediately. Michael can’t say that he particularly blames Newt for being so tired. Even though Newt had spent the entire day curled up in Michael’s pocket, traveling twice by floo powder in such a short among of time has to be exhausting for the tiny hedgehog.

Calum sits down in the squashy arm chair, leaving enough room for Michael to join him. Once Michael makes sure that Newt is happy with his placement in the window with the best view of Hogwarts’ expansive grounds, Michael sits down, too. Calum gives Michael enough time to get situated before he latches onto Michael, pressing a soft kiss to Michael’s cheek. He lays his head against Michael’s chest.

“Thanks for coming with me today,” says Michael. He wraps his arms around Calum so that Calum won’t topple to the floor. It is more than likely an unnecessary fear, as Michael can feel the magic of Hogwarts tighten around the pair of them. It is almost as if Hogwarts itself wouldn’t dare let Calum get hurt, because Hogwarts knows how much Calum means to Michael. Hogwarts has, after all, witnessed the extent of Michael’s devotion. “I mean, I didn’t get along with my mother—I didn’t even like her most of the time—but it still meant a lot to me that you came with me to her funeral.”

“I love you, Mikey,” says Calum, snuggling even farther into Michael until he is practically curled up in Michael’s lap. “I’d go anywhere with you.”

“I love you, too,” Michael says, because it is true. He does love Calum. He thinks of the ring burning a hole in his pocket. It used to belong to his mother, and as much as Michael himself doesn’t want it, he knows the value of Clifford family possessions. “There’s, er, something I want to give you.”

Gently, he moves out from underneath Calum until they’re both squashed side-by-side again in the arm chair. It isn’t the most comfortable thing in the world, but it will do for the few minutes it will take for Michael to dig into his pocket. He pulls out two items, one that belongs to his family and one that was only ever supposed to be Calum’s.

“I want you to have my mother’s ring,” he says, staring down at the offensive golden jewelry. “It doesn’t have to mean anything, and you don’t have to wear it, but I don’t want it. I don’t want to just throw it away, either, because it meant something special to my family. I don’t agree with them on a lot of things, but this ring has stayed in my family for generations, and that’s got to say something about their view on love, doesn’t it? I mean, if nothing else, it does.”

Calum glances down at the ring then looks up to meet Michael’s eyes. Confusion is bright on Calum’s face. Michael doesn’t blame him. The ring belongs to the Clifford family. It has never, ever been in the possession of a halfblood with a muggleborn mother. Michael, though, has never cared for his family’s pureblood supremacy.

“You’re supposed to give this to your—”

“I know,” interrupts Michael, “and that’s you—or, I mean, that could be you. One day. If you wanted. If we are still, you know, together. I dunno. I just know that I want forever with you one day, and this isn’t a promise or a proposal or anything like that. It’s just—can you keep it safe for me, at least?”

Calum smiles. He lays his hand over Michael’s trapping the ring between them for a long moment. When he pulls his hand away, he takes the ring with him, and Michael’s heart flutters at the idea that Calum didn’t say no.

“You, my boyfriend, just gave me a ring. There’s no way in hell I’m turning that down,” Calum says, winking lewdly. “I told you I was keeping you forever, didn’t I?”

Michael laughs, nodding his head. That is what Calum told him once upon a time. Though Calum didn’t initially follow through on the promise to keep Michael forever and ever, he is doing a pretty good job at it now.

“There is one more thing,” says Michael. He carefully lowers a beautiful silver whistle into the palm of Calum’s hand, right above the golden ring. He lets go of the chain and watches it cascade down into Calum’s hold. “When we went to Hogsmeade on our date, I got this for you at the quidditch shop. You’re going to be captain someday—about a year from now when Niall graduates—and, well, it’s just an ordinary whistle, but I wanted you to know how much I believe in you. You talk about quidditch like it’s sacred, and you know everything there is to know about _broomstick oils_ , and one of these days, you’re going to be up there on a broom playing in the World Cup— _winning the World Cup_. I just know it.”

“ _Michael_ ,” breathes Calum, staring at Michael in awe like he has never, ever laid eyes on such a perfect human being. Michael feels fidgety underneath Calum’s gaze, but when Calum leans in for a quick, fierce kiss, Michael kisses back with everything that he has. Calum breaks the kiss, and he leans forehead against Michael, panting. He chuckles. “All I got you that day was some stupid bag of Bertie Bott’s beans that are supposed to react to different charms. I thought you’d have a good laugh with ‘em.”

“You got me Bertie Bott’s beans?” asks Michael, genuinely surprised. “They’re my favorite sweets.”

“I know,” says Calum. He shakes his head, his forehead rubbing against Michael’s. “Don’t try to pretend like a bag of magical jelly beans are anywhere near as heartfelt as the bloody whistle you just gave me.”

Michael laughs, ready to argue with him, because Michael really, really likes Bertie Bott’s jelly beans. Calum catches him off guard, though, and kisses him, and Michael laughs right into it, feeling so much love that his toes curl. He wraps his arms around Calum so that he can pull Calum back into his lap. He never, ever wants to stop kissing Calum. Not for the rest of his life.

“Er—are we interrupting something?” asks Luke, and there goes Michael’s plan to kiss Calum forever. “’Cause we can come back.”

Michael breaks the kiss, still laughing. Calum curls back up into his earlier position and lays his head on Michael’s chest. Michael locks his fingers behind Calum to keep Calum from falling into the floor, and he glances up to see Luke standing in the doorway to the nook. Ashton stands behind Luke, slightly hesitant, but the glint of unfamiliarity that had shined deep in his eyes when he had first woken up to find Michael at his bedside is gone.

Michael hasn’t spent a moment alone with Ashton, because he isn’t quite sure how to mend a friendship that Ashton doesn’t remember. They have, however, spent enough time hanging out with Luke and Calum together that Ashton has accepted that what Michael said was true. That they are friends. It is a minor victory, but Michael will take what he can get. 

“How was potions?” asks Michael, beckoning them into the nook.

Luke walks on in and plops down in the floor across from Michael and Calum. He folds his legs underneath him and leans back against the bookshelf behind him. He looks much happier than he had when Michael had spoken to him this morning. Perhaps time alone with Ashton has helped.

“Dreadful,” says Luke, wrinkling his nose. “Slughorn had us brew a Strengthening Solution, but one of the Gryffindors forgot to add salamander blood to the potion before they put it over the fire, and we cleared out about half of an hour early.”

 “It was probably for the best,” says Ashton, still in the doorway. “I nearly, er, blew up my own potion. Probably would have, if not for Lukey.”

“He pulled a total Michael and tried to add powdered Graphorn horn instead of the powdered Griffin claw the instructions called for,” says Luke, snorting. He glances up at Ashton with a grin then glances at Michael. “Looks like I’ve got my work cut out for me in potions until Ashton gets his memory back.”

Ashton rolls his eyes, offended but smiling at Luke nonetheless. It has always been seemingly physically impossible for Ashton to not smile around Luke. His memory loss hasn’t affected that part of his brain.

“I’m not that much of a liability,” says Ashton. “It was an understandable mistake. Anybody could have made it.”

“True,” agrees Luke, still grinning. He winks at Michael then turns back to Ashton. “Michael typically does.”

“You are a horrible, horrible friend, Luke Hemmings,” says Ashton, but he speaks with so much _love_ in his voice that the effect of his words is lost.

Everybody laughs. If Michael were to close his eyes and forget all about everything that has happened over the last few days, he could almost picture that things are back to normal. That this is the old Ashton right here with them laughing and joking and remembering everything—remembering that Michael is his best friend and Luke is the love of his life as well as his boyfriend.

But the world doesn’t work like that. Ashton doesn’t remember those things. All he knows is that he has apparently forged a friendship with Michael in the time missing in his head and that Luke is only his friend and nothing more. Michael doesn’t know who to feel sorrier for—himself or Ashton or Luke or even Calum, who has to try his best to hold all of four of them together while Ashton recovers his memory.

“And yet I always cheer the loudest for you at your quidditch games, and I spend all day with you at the music shop when we go to Hogsmeade, and I let you kiss me on the cheek whenever you want,” says Luke. He shakes his head in mock exasperation. “I honestly don’t know why you’re still friends with me.”

“Yeah,” says Ashton, quietly. A pink blush tickles his cheeks, and for a moment Michael thinks that Ashton isn’t really there with them—that he is lost somewhere far away in his own thoughts. Finally, Ashton leaves his post next to the door, and he walks ever-so-slowly over to Luke. He smiles down at Luke. It is a soft smile, like it is reserved for Luke and only him. “You do let me do all of those things. Guess that’s why I can’t imagine my life without you.”

It isn’t an _I love you_ like Ashton would have said if he remembered that he and Luke were together, but it is the closest that he can come to saying those words without knowing how much he means to Luke. The response is immediate. The impish grin slips from Luke’s lips as his entire face brightens into hope—into an expression full of pure, undying love that he always adopts when he is around Ashton.

“I’m not going anywhere,” promises Luke.

He holds up his hand to Ashton, and Ashton takes it without hesitation. Luke pulls him down to the floor. Ashton goes easily enough, curling around Luke’s frame and resting his head against Luke’s shoulder like it is the most natural thing in the world. Luke smiles like his birthday and Christmas have both come at the same time right now. He turns to press a soft, gentle, and loving kiss to the top of Ashton’s head. It looks like a promise of forever.

“None of us are,” adds Michael.

Ashton blinks up at Michael and Calum as if he had forgotten there was even anybody else other than Luke in the room. Perhaps he had. It is easy to get so wrapped up in love sometimes. Ashton may not know it—or he probably does but doesn’t think he is allowed to have it—but he and Luke look every bit as in love and as together as they did that day they went on their date to Hogsmeade.

“Good,” says Ashton, grinning at Michael and looking content as ever with his head lying on Luke’s shoulder. “Because we’re supposed to be best friends, right? Isn’t that what you said?”

“I think that’s what you said, actually,” says Michael. Happiness bubbles up in his chest like it did that first time he heard Ashton profess such a promise. This is all that Michael has ever wanted—to have friends. “But it’s okay if you don’t remember.”

“I will,” says Ashton, as optimistic as always. The tense line of his jaw belies how much he believes that he will one day regain his memory. He smiles at Michael. “Magic can fix anything, right?”

Michael hopes beyond all hopes that Ashton really is right, so he nods his head. It wouldn’t hurt to have a little bit of optimism. After all, if the magic of Hogwarts can be fractured into thousands of tiny pieces and if Hogwarts can still do its best to protect Michael and his friends when it is split right open, then, surely, some magic somewhere can fix Ashton’s memory.

Michael tightens his hold on Calum, and he believes that the four of them are going to find that magic. They are going to fix Ashton’s memory—all of them together, because they are four-strong and slightly damaged but healing.

“Yeah,” says Michael, “well, I guess if anything were to do it, it must be magic.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The End.
> 
> ([sorta](http://tigerlily-sunshine.tumblr.com/post/147022729658/the-future-of-it-must-be-magic).)

**Author's Note:**

> I did a thing! I created a tumblr! (Well, actually, I've had a tumblr for a while now, but it's personal, and I wanted to keep my fanfiction separate, so I created a new one just for this.) Check it out if you want! I'm going to try to keep it current with my stories (and whatever else I feel like reblogging or posting). 
> 
> [tumblr](http://tigerlily-sunshine.tumblr.com/)
> 
> Also, check out [this awesome malum artwork](http://niwisdoodles.tumblr.com/post/141672211241/i-read-this-hogwarts5sos-au-fanfic-where-they) and  
> [this equally magnificent lashton artwork](http://niwisdoodles.tumblr.com/post/141909814041/and-this-is-the-second-drawing-for) by the amazing Niwisdoodles!
> 
> Also, the individual tag for this fic on my tumblr is found [here](http://tigerlily-sunshine.tumblr.com/tagged/It-must-be-Magic).


End file.
